Thirteen Days of Christmas
by Alohaemora
Summary: Romantic, seasonal one-shots for all of the Weasley-Potter grandkids (and Teddy, the honorary Weasley).
1. Victoire: Silent Night

**I.**

 **Victoire**

Silent Night

14 December 2034

* * *

 _Silent night.  
_ _Holy night._

* * *

Victoire hummed softly under her breath, tucking herself comfortably into her armchair by the fireplace and rubbing her pregnant stomach. The Christmas tree in the corner of the parlor was glowing fiercely in the dimly lit room, illuminating the faces of the four boys who were sleeping soundly underneath it, a tangle of small limbs and rumpled pajamas.

Cocking her head to the side, Victoire smiled across the parlor at her sons, all completely exhausted from spending the evening at the Auror Office's annual holiday party. Ten-year-old Remus was snoring the loudest, his soft chin twitching. Eight-year-old John lay, spread-eagle, across Remus's chest, with his mouth hanging wide open. Five-year-old Pierre was sprawled out on John's legs, his head lolling as he snuffled in his sleep. And tucked safely into the combined, protective cocoon of his elder brothers' arms was three-year-old Isaac, who was sucking his thumb.

With a soft sigh, Victoire closed her eyes, wiggling her toes and listening to the distant sounds of her husband preparing two cups of hot cocoa in Grimmauld Place's basement kitchen. As a young girl, Victoire had always known the holiday season to be difficult for Teddy. She had watched him ache for a family of his own and then immediately feel guilty for wishing it, when his godfather and his grandmother both worked so hard to make him feel loved and included.

But now, after ten years of being a mother herself, Victoire understood Teddy's feelings better than ever before. Because it _was_ different. It _was_ different to have a family of her own, to hold her sons in her arms and know that they were hers—her _own_. More than once in the past decade, Victoire had found herself marveling at the amount of strength and resolve that Teddy's mother had had, to have parted with her two-week-old baby, to have sacrificed her own safety to join her friends and her husband at Hogwarts, in a dangerous fight for her son's future…

Tears sprung unexpectedly to Victoire's eyes and she cursed softly, hastily wiping her cheeks with the sleeve of her Christmas jumper.

"Are you all right?"

Victoire jumped, turning towards the doorway. Teddy had emerged from the basement kitchen, bearing two mugs of steaming hot cocoa and a concerned expression.

Victoire gave him a watery smile. "I'm fine," she said thickly, sniffing and rubbing her stomach. "It's just—hormones."

Teddy smiled sympathetically, walking over to her armchair and handing her a mug. Then, he bent down and gently kissed her forehead, before sinking into the armchair across from hers.

"Everybody loved you tonight," he told her, grinning. "Corner and Abercrombie have decided that you're going to sing at every Christmas party from now on."

Victoire laughed, shaking her head. "Well, in that case, they can babysit the kids. One more Auror party like this one, and we'll be lucky if we can get them into the house again, much less up to their bedrooms."

Teddy chuckled, turning around to look at the untidy heap under the Christmas tree. "They're sort of cute, aren't they? When they're asleep like this?"

"Don't get any ideas, Lupin," Victoire warned, laughing and patting her stomach. "Five is plenty."

Teddy gave her a sheepish grin, running a hand through his dark green hair and taking a sip of hot chocolate.

Victoire gazed at her husband, tightening her grip on her own mug. And then, quite suddenly, she was inexplicably overwhelmed with emotion. Her throat swelled shut, and her eyes began to sting with tears. Swallowing heavily, Victoire set her mug down on the coffee table and faced Teddy.

"Teddy, if—" she cleared her throat, trying to unstick her voice, "—if the baby's a—girl, d'you…would you want to name her after your mum?" she asked softly.

Teddy was quiet for several moments, turning away to stare at the flickering embers of the fireplace. Then, at last, he looked around and met her gaze, his expression inscrutable. "Ginny's always told me that my mum hated her name," he said—in what Victoire knew was his best attempt at a tone of nonchalance, though it did not completely mask his hope and longing.

"I know that," Victoire said quickly, half-smiling. "That's why—well, I was thinking—maybe just…Dora."

Teddy's expression went blank. He stared at Victoire in shock, his dark gray eyes widening. Then, very, very slowly, he reached out and laid a gentle hand on her stomach. "Dora," he whispered.

Victoire nodded, tears spilling over. "Yeah, I think she's a girl, too," she said softly. She laughed, swiping her hand under her nose. "At least, I don't remember being this emotional with any of the boys."

Teddy gave a slightly hysterical laugh, setting his mug on the coffee table and kneeling down in front of Victoire's armchair. "Merlin, I love you so much," he said in a strangled voice, taking her hands and squeezing them.

Victoire sniffed heartily and smiled, leaning forward and gently resting her forehead against his. "Happy Christmas, Ted," she whispered.

* * *

 _All is calm.  
A_ _ll is bright._

 _—_ Franz Xaver Gruber

* * *

Author's Note:

Hello, my lovelies, and welcome to my super dooper exciting holiday project!

Basically, it's a collection of romantic one-shots, one for each of the Weasley cousins (and one for Teddy too). All of these stories feature the Weasley grandkids as adults, so there'll be a fair number of OCs, but you'll start to see a LOT of recurring names/events/details. Also, the stories are more about love/family than they are about the actual OCs.

The inspiration for this story goes to the wonderful MandyinKC and her wonderful story 'Another Weasley Christmas.' Go check it out! Actually, go check out all of her stories!

Each chapter of this story is based off of a holiday hit single. Victoire's, here, was 'Silent Night.' The next chapter, which is James's, is for 'Cold December Night.'

Updates will be daily, as each chapter takes place on one of the days leading up to Christmas (but on different years). Then, one of the chapters will be for Christmas Day itself. And then, the last one will take place on Boxing Day. GET EXCITED, EVERYONE! Over the course of thirteen chapters, we will see a proposal, a wedding, a couple of babies for cuteness factor, and just a whole lotta Christmas spirit!

Also, it's not important, but just in case anyone is curious about ages while reading this story, these are the birthdays of the Weasley kids in my head canon (for reference):

Teddy: 17 April 1998  
Victoire: 2 May 2000  
Dominique: 16 December 2002  
Freddie: 9 September 2003  
James: 25 March 2004  
Louis: 19 July 2004  
Albus: 18 May 2006  
Rose: 21 June 2006  
Hugo: 27 October 2007  
Roxanne: 30 November 2007  
Lily: 29 February 2008  
Molly: 3 September 2008  
Lucy: 30 August 2010

I hope you enjoyed this first chapter! Stay tuned for more!

Ari


	2. James: Cold December Night

**II.**

 **James**

Cold December Night

15 December 2031

* * *

 _So, please just fall in love with me this Christmas.  
There's nothing else that I will need this Christmas._

* * *

James's teeth were chattering. It was eleven o'clock in the evening and it was bloody _freezing_. No flakes of snow drifted down from the dark sky, but a needle-sharp wind was whistling through the air, relentlessly biting into every inch of James's skin. Cursing himself for not thinking to change out of his oldest and thinnest flannel pajamas, James glanced around the Leaky Cauldron's brick-walled back courtyard, looking for a stone.

With a jolt, he spotted a pile of gray pebbles lying under a nearby dustbin. Hurrying forward, he scooped up the pebbles with his numb fingers. Then, he stepped back, facing the pub's tall building.

One—two—three—four—five—James carefully counted the floors. Then, focusing intently on the third window of the fifth floor, James seized a pebble and flung it directly at the glass. With his impeccable aim as a Chaser, James did not need to hear the soft _clang_ that followed to know that he had hit his mark. Shivering, he quickly extracted a second pebble and hurled it up at the window. _Clang_ —it hit its mark, as well. Gritting his chattering teeth, James withdrew a third pebble. _Clang_. Then, a fourth pebble. _Clang._ Five. _Clang._ Six. _Clang._ Seven. _Clang._

Then, just as James was about to fling up an eighth pebble, a dim light flickered to life inside the room. James inhaled sharply, standing bolt upright. A moment later, the window was wrenched open, and the beautifully furious face of Alice Longbottom emerged, her long gingery-blond hair disheveled and her bright gray eyes flashing.

"What the bloody _hell_ is your problem?" she bellowed.

"Alice!" James cried, dropping the rest of the pebbles he was holding and hurrying to stand directly beneath her open window. "Alice, I'm sorry!"

"Oh, are you?" Alice demanded icily, and James flinched at her tone. "Well, that's convenient, isn't it? Deciding to make up with your girlfriend right before the holidays—that's a happy coincidence!"

James gulped. "No—Alice, I—"

"What are you doing down there anyway?" Alice interrupted acidly, narrowing her eyes. "Why didn't you just come upstairs?"

"Your dad wouldn't let me!" James lamented.

Alice snorted. "Yeah, because I told him not to. I thought you might still try something, though—like always. Because that's what you do, isn't it? You never take anything seriously, James, not even your girlfriend!"

James gaped at her. "Alice, it's not like that!" he croaked.

"Then, what exactly _is_ it like?" Alice shrieked, and James stumbled backwards, alarmed. "I'm tired of this, James! I'm tired of wondering whether or not you'll show up to a date! I'm tired of trying to riddle out how much you like me! I'm twenty-four years old, and I think I've made it really bloody _clear_ how I feel about you—so if you can't be an adult about our relationship, then I don't see the point of having one!"

James's stomach plummeted to his feet. " _Alice_ —"

"Go home, James," Alice's voice trembled slightly. James squinted, trying to see her face clearly through the darkness. "Goodnight."

She began to duck out of the window—and at that very moment, James was suddenly seized by a paralyzing, stupefying realization.

"Alice!" he hollered, his voice breaking. "Alice, I love you!"

Alice froze with her head halfway inside. There was a very long, tense silence; James crossed his shaking fingers tightly in the pocket of his pajama pants.

Then, at last, slowly, Alice stuck her head out of the window again. Her gray eyes were very round. "Say that again," she whispered, though her voice still carried over the wind.

James swallowed heavily, a vast sense of mingled relief and euphoria crashing over him. "I love you," he repeated loudly, cupping his hands around his mouth. "And I'm sorry we still have fights like this. And I'm sorry for not making up with you until the holidays—but I love you! I _love_ you!"

Alice's smile was resplendent, luminescent, filling James with an overwhelming, overwhelming joy that seemed to radiate from his chest, warming him from the inside out. "Alice!" he shouted. "Come down here!"

"James, it's freezing!" Alice cried, laughing. "You come up!"

"No, Alice, you've _got_ to come down here!"

"I— _why?_ " Alice asked, gaping at him.

" _Why?_ " James repeated incredulously, letting out a hysterical, little laugh. "Because I _love_ you! Now, get _down_ here!"

"James, I'm not dressed—and neither are you," Alice protested exasperatedly, though she was positively beaming. "You come up!"

"I'm not coming up there, Alice! You've got to come down!"

Alice gave a strangled laugh, covering her mouth with her hands and shaking her head in wonder. Then, finally, she ducked out of the window and slammed it shut. A moment later, the light went out in her bedroom.

James let out a loud, triumphant whoop, punching the air. But then, the very next instant, it occurred to him that he couldn't possibly wait for Alice to climb down five flights of stairs. Making up his mind in a split-second, he turned and sprinted down the length of the courtyard, through the backdoor, down the dark corridor, and back into the Leaky Cauldron's main room. Heart pounding against his ribs, he jogged past several crowded booths, past the bar, where Neville was grading Herbology papers—he glanced up briefly as James rocketed by him and rolled his eyes in an amused, long-suffering way.

Heart leaping into his throat, James raced up the pub's center staircase, up to the first floor landing, and then, up to the second—and then, up to the third—

And then, suddenly, she was there, her gingery-blond hair in a disarray, her pale pink nightgown rumpled, her dressing gown hanging loosely from her shoulders. James stopped short in his tracks, taking her in—every inch of the beautiful woman in front of him—the woman he _loved_ —

Alice stepped forward, beaming, her eyes alight with a kind of happiness that James had never seen before. "I was going to—"

"I know," James breathed.

And then, the next second, she was in his arms and his hands were tangled in her hair, and laughing uncontrollably, they kissed, clinging to each other for all they were worth—and suddenly, it wasn't so very cold anymore.

* * *

 _I want something that lasts forever,  
_ _So kiss me on this cold December night._

 _—_ Michael Bublé

* * *

Author's Note:

These two are both such drama queens. Honestly. XD Teehee, I love James. He's exasperatingly amusing.

Tiny disclaimer: the whole "Come down!"/"No, you come up!" bit is loosely borrowed from Season 1, Episode 22 of How I Met Your Mother.

Thanks, everyone, for the lovely reviews! So glad you're enjoying this! Next up will be Dominique with 'Meet Me Under the Mistletoe.' :)

Ari


	3. Dominique: Meet Me Under the Mistletoe

**III.**

 **Dominique**

Meet Me Under the Mistletoe

16 December 2028

* * *

 _Meet me under the mistletoe, midnight, Christmas Eve.  
_ _Your sweet kiss is the first gift I'd like to receive._

* * *

"I don't understand why I need to style my hair," Dominique grumbled, wincing as Victoire tugged a hairbrush through her strawberry-blond curls. "It's just a Christmas party."

"It's the annual British and Irish Quidditch League Christmas party, and I will _not_ have my little sister— _lead_ Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies—show up looking anything less than _immaculate_ on her birthday," Victoire said firmly, yanking ruthlessly at a particularly painful knot in Dominique's hair.

Dominique yelped in pain, turning around and shooting her sister a dirty look. "Can you at least let me face the mirror so I can see what the bloody hell you're doing?"

"No," Victoire said resolutely. "You're a backseat driver, like Maman. Just trust me—you'll like what I have planned. I've wanted to play with your hair since we were children, but you were always too busy rolling around in the mud with Lou."

Dominique rolled her eyes. "Well, _you_ were always too busy following Teddy around like a lost crup."

Victoire swatted Dominique's shoulder, and Dominique snorted with laughter. It was true—right up until the very morning that Teddy had left for Hogwarts, Victoire and Teddy had been inseparable. It was a friendship—and now, a marriage—that always took Dominique by surprise, for Teddy and Victoire were as different as two people could possibly be. Teddy was all rough around the edges, impulsive, hilarious, and slightly clumsy, while Victoire was graceful and elegant—Maman in miniature—smooth, silvery-blond, sweet, smart, and—well, _girly_. And yet, somehow, the two of them had paired off effortlessly.

So, Dominique had been left to her own devices—and as Freddie, James, and Louis had been the next three children to arrive in the family, Dominique had spent much of her childhood with the three of them, partaking in activities that Victoire had turned her nose up at.

Dominique groaned, squirming in her seat as Victoire began pulling at her hair again. "Seriously, Vic, what is your _problem?_ "

"Don't bite the hand that feeds you," Victoire snapped, flicking Dominique's ear. "I'm just trying to help you look your best for your birthday date."

A prickly heat crept up Dominique's cheeks. "It's _not_ a date," she grumbled.

Victoire chuckled. "Oh, sweetheart, it most definitely is."

"No, it _isn't_."

"All right, why d'you think it isn't?"

"Because Malcolm Wood and I have been friends for ten years," Dominique told Victoire shortly. "Because he _has_ to go to this party—you _know_ he plays for Puddlemere with James—and because when he asked me to go to this party with him, his exact words were, 'Hey, Dom, d'you wanna go to this Christmas party together? We can sit next to James and shoot Color-Change Charms at the back of his head.' I don't know about you, Vic, but that doesn't exactly qualify as romance in my book."

Victoire was quiet for several moments, as she waved her wand over Dominique's hair, causing the curls to rearrange themselves.

Then, suddenly— "D'you know how Teddy asked me out the first time?" Victoire asked quietly.

Dominique frowned, turning around to look at her elder sister. "No—how?"

Victoire smiled, shaking her head. "He never really did," she said softly. "He went from saying 'wotcher' to saying 'I love you' in just days. And I wouldn't trade that kind of a relationship for the world."

Dominique swallowed heavily, staring down at her knees. "It's not the same thing," she muttered.

Victoire sighed, coming around the chair to face Dominique. "Maybe it's not exactly the same," she said gently. "But Malcolm Wood's always been sweet on you, Dom. Even _James_ has noticed—and he's not exactly the brightest wand in the shop when it comes to these things."

Dominique snorted. "I'm still trying to work out how he snagged Alice Longbottom."

Victoire giggled, covering her mouth with her hand, and a comfortable silence fell over the room. Dominique gazed down at the floor, her mind racing.

Then, at last, she looked up and caught Victoire's eye. "I've just—I've always felt like one of the blokes," Dominique whispered. "I never thought of myself any differently. I didn't think anyone else did."

Victoire smiled at her, reaching out and patting her cheek softly. "Well, Dom, just because it's taken you twenty-six years to realize you're a woman, doesn't mean no one else caught on," she said in a very serious tone, though her eyes were gleaming.

Dominique glared at her sister, crossing her arms. "You're awful," she grouched.

Victoire laughed, bending down and kissing the top of Dominique's head. "You're worse," she quipped back lightly. "Anyway, I'm done with your hair."

Dominique let out a strangled cry of relief, clambering to her feet. " _Finally_ —"

"Not so fast," Victoire interrupted sharply, pushing Dominique firmly back down into her chair. "We haven't even started your makeup yet."

Dominique groaned loudly.

After another torturous hour-and-a-half of primping and pawing, Victoire finally relinquished her stranglehold on Dominique and allowed her to change into her pale blue dress robes. Then, beaming, Victoire steered Dominique over to face the vanity.

Dominique's jaw dropped.

Her short strawberry-gold hair hung freely around her neck in gentle, silky curls, with two intricately braided pieces held up at her temples. Her pink-toned makeup was very simple, far less than she remembered Victoire applying, but it highlighted her high, sharp cheekbones and her deep, clear blue eyes—the only two features that both Victoire and Dominique shared with their mother. And her floaty blue dress robes were well-fitted, hugging her tall, lean frame perfectly. Still slightly openmouthed, Dominique turned back around to face her elder sister.

Victoire was smiling smugly. "You're welcome," she trilled in a singsong voice. Then, she reached out and seized Dominique's wrist. "Come on, let's go downstairs. He's going to be here any minute."

Numbly, Dominique permitted Victoire to drag her out of hers and Teddy's bedroom and down Grimmauld Place's long, winding staircase. At last, they arrived at the parlor, where Teddy was sitting in his armchair, reading _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ to two-year-old John and four-year-old Remus—Dominique's godson. They all looked up as Dominique and Victoire entered.

"Wow, Auntie Dom!" Remus crowed enthusiastically, scrambling out of his father's lap and sprinting up to her. "You look _pretty!_ "

Dominique blushed slightly and grinned, winking at Teddy over Remus's head. "Thanks, mate," she said affectionately, ruffling her nephew's mousy brown hair.

Teddy scooped little John into his arms and came to stand by Victoire, smiling. "You do look lovely," he added, kissing Dominique's cheek. "Now, you let me know if this Malcolm bloke tries anything funny. I'll make sure he's detained and interrogated by the entire Auror Office."

Dominique burst out laughing. "Thanks, Teddy—but I think I might be able to handle this one on my own."

Teddy grinned.

Just then, there was a knock at the front door. Victoire let out a delighted squeal and practically flew out of the parlor, startling Remus, who jumped backwards and collided with his father's leg. Exchanging a long-suffering look with her brother-in-law, Dominique quickly hurried into the foyer after her sister, who was now waiting by the front door, looking positively fit to burst with excitement.

Taking a deep breath, Dominique smoothed out her dress robes. Then, shooting an exasperated look over her shoulder at Victoire, she stepped forward and pulled open the door.

Malcolm Wood stood on the top step, tall, broad-shouldered, and burly—the classic Beater's build. His dark hair was windswept and his bright blue eyes were framed, as always, by his long, thick brown lashes.

And he was holding a bouquet of sea lavender, the kind that grew in the front yard of Shell Cottage—the only kind of flower Dominique had ever liked.

He grinned at her, eyes twinkling, and held out the bouquet. "Happy birthday, Dom," he said warmly. "You look amazing."

Dominique reached out and accepted the bouquet, stunned. "Thanks," she said dumbly, staring down at the flowers in astonishment.

There was a brief pause.

Then, Malcolm cleared his throat. "We should probably go," he said, checking his wristwatch. "The party starts in fifteen minutes, and my dad'll kill me if I'm late again this year."

"Of course!" Victoire chimed in animatedly from somewhere behind Dominique's left shoulder. Hurrying forward, she took the flowers from Dominique's hands. "I'll take these to your flat for you, Dom."

"Oh—thanks—" Dominique began, but before she could say anything more, Victoire gave her a sharp prod from behind, forcing her onto the porch next to Malcolm. Then, the front door slammed shut.

Shaking her head slowly, Dominique turned around and met Malcolm's bright blue eyes—and her stomach seemed to twist into a knot. "Sorry about that," she said in a low voice, nodding towards the now-closed door.

Malcolm grinned reassuringly, offering her his arm, which she took. Then, suddenly, he glanced upward, raising his eyebrows. "Oh," he observed lightly. "Mistletoe."

Dominique looked up as well, and felt her breath catch in her throat. Sure enough, a mistletoe—one which certainly hadn't been present when she had first arrived at her sister's house—was dangling innocently from the roof of the front stoop. And a hastily stifled, triumphant snort from behind the door told Dominique exactly who the culprit was.

Cheeks burning, Dominique swallowed heavily, before glancing up and giving Malcolm the bravest smile she could muster. "Well…we can't bend the sacred mistletoe law," she joked.

Malcolm took a step closer to her. "No, we can't," he agreed seriously. Very gently, he reached out and tucked a loose curl of Dominique's hair behind her ear—but then, he didn't remove his hand. "You really do look amazing," he murmured, his voice raw and gravelly against her ear.

Goosebumps erupted on Dominique's neck and her heart somersaulted in her chest. "So do you," she whispered back.

Malcolm chuckled softly, leaning down, and Dominique closed her eyes.

Behind the front door, Victoire burst into tears.

* * *

 _Soon, the house will come alive, with family and friends.  
I'd love some time alone with you before it all begins._

 _—_ Randy Travis

* * *

Author's Note:

Happy birthday, Dom!

Don't you just love a good makeover story? XD Hehehe I love these two sisters and their relationship. They are loosely based off of me and my younger sister (yes, it's true, I'm the most embarrassing older sister ever) who, like Dominique here, celebrated her birthday this month. This one's for you, A!

Oh, and I also wanted to take a second to acknowledge a guest reviewer named Mel who leaves such lovely reviews for my stories that I so wish I could reply to! Thank you :)

Tomorrow, we'll have Roxanne with 'All I Want for Christmas Is You.'

Ari


	4. Roxanne: All I Want for Christmas Is You

**IV.**

 **Roxanne**

All I Want for Christmas Is You

17 December 2037

* * *

 _I just want you for my own,_  
 _More than you could ever know._

* * *

Roxanne rubbed her eyes tiredly, as she fumbled with the keys of her Diagon Alley flat. It had been a long and exhausting day of work at the bank. The Gringotts goblins always became exceptionally surly during the holidays, as they were forced to watch vast amounts of goblin-made treasure—old familial engagement rings and strings of priceless jewels—withdrawn from Wizarding vaults and passed around under their noses. Uncle Bill had taught Roxanne, very early on, not to tussle with the goblins during Christmastime—but staying out of their way certainly didn't make working with them any easier.

Sighing heavily, she pushed open the door. Then, she froze at the threshold. The sitting room of the flat was pitch-black. She frowned warily, closing her fingers around her wand. It was not like Henry to put out the lights before she got home—besides, Henry had an irritatingly endearing habit of waiting up for her.

Suddenly, she heard a rustle near her left elbow and she whirled around, slashing her wand through the air. There was a blinding blaze of blue light, followed by a loud _thud_ and a yelp of pain. Heart pounding against her ribs, Roxanne flicked her wand in the direction of the sitting room's gas lamps. With a low rumble, they flickered to life—and Roxanne swiveled to face the crumpled form that was sprawled out on the rug near the coffee table.

" _Henry?_ "

Henry Malkin, Roxanne's boyfriend of fifteen years, was struggling to his feet, rubbing his back where, presumably, it had hit the coffee table as a result of Roxanne's Knockback Jinx.

"What the hell was that for?" he grumbled, wincing.

Roxanne rolled her eyes. "You tell me," she said incredulously, stowing her wand and hurrying to assist him. "Didn't your mother ever teach you not to sneak up on a curse-breaker?"

Henry snorted, but did not protest, as Roxanne slipped her arm around his waist and carefully led him towards the sofa. Groaning, he fell back against the couch cushions, massaging his shoulder.

"So, are you going to tell me exactly what you were doing in the dark?" Roxanne asked him in amusement. "Or is that a question I'd rather not know the answer to?"

Henry threw her a dirty look. "If you _must_ know, I was planning to surprise you. I made us a wonderful dinner—and we were _supposed_ to eat it in the kitchen like civilized wizards, but I suppose this will have to do…" Drawing his wand from his pocket, Henry waved it in the direction of the kitchen, and Roxanne gasped, ducking, as two—three—four— _five_ different casseroles came soaring through the doorway to land lightly on the coffee table.

"Bloody hell," Roxanne exclaimed, gaping at the numerous platters. "Have you been in the kitchen all day?"

Henry grinned, handing her a plate, and Roxanne sank down onto the sofa next to him, blinking in amazement. "I closed the shop early so I could come home and cook," he told her, serving her a jacket potato. "I wanted this to be special."

Roxanne stopped smiling. She turned and looked sharply at Henry. His grin faltered slightly, but his gaze didn't waver.

"Henry," Roxanne said in a low, fierce voice. " _No_ —not this again, _please_."

Henry sighed. "Roxanne, just hear me out—"

"I've heard you out, Henry," Roxanne interrupted severely, setting her plate down on the coffee table and closing her eyes. "I've heard you out _six_ times. My answer hasn't changed."

"Well, one more time, then," Henry said, his voice hardening slightly. "Just hear me out one more time, Rox. Lucky number seven."

Roxanne opened her eyes and glowered at him. But Henry didn't even flinch.

Roxanne Weasley had been in love with Henry Malkin since she was fifteen years old. It had started in the October of her fourth year, when he had first asked her to Hogsmeade. She had already known who he was at the time, of course. They were in the same year and in the same house—Henry was one of Hugo's best friends. He had caught up with her after a Herbology lesson and asked her, oh-so-nonchalantly, if she wanted to grab a drink with him at the Three Broomsticks that weekend. And Roxanne, remembering one of her mother's first pieces of advice about boys ( _"If you think you might actually fancy him, tell him you're busy, and see if he asks again."_ ), had invented an excuse as to why she couldn't go.

The next month, he had asked her again.

It had been the best Hogsmeade visit of her life. Henry was handsome, certainly—but moreover, he was kind, and funny, and he had made her feel comfortable in a way that Roxanne hadn't imagined possible.

After that, she hadn't looked back. They had dated throughout their last three years of Hogwarts and had been together ever since. Unlike most of her family, who had dated at least two or three people at school (and in the case of James, Freddie, and Louis, it had been more along the lines of six or seven), Roxanne had only ever had one boyfriend. She had only ever loved one person. And it terrified her.

Roxanne wasn't like the other girls she had known in school. For one thing, she hated being taken care of. She was independent, and clever, and sharp, and she could take care of herself, thank you very much. She hated feeling vulnerable, but above all, she hated being caught off guard. And unfortunately for her, Henry had a knack for doing just that.

On their graduation day, he had proposed for the first time. The 'no' that had sprung to her lips had been reflexive, immediate. They were too young. Roxanne would soon be starting her curse-breaker training program. It was a terrible idea.

But then, two years later, he had asked her again. And then, two years after that, again. Then, three more times, after that. And by that point, it had started to become harder and harder to come up with reasons to refuse.

 _But that_ , Roxanne thought fiercely, _was the problem_. A proposal was supposed to make a girl happy, wasn't it? Victoire, and Rose, and Dominique—and all of her other cousins—they had been so thrilled to be engaged. Roxanne had even witnessed Dominique's proposal. Malcolm had done it during a family birthday dinner for Dominique at Shell Cottage, six years ago. And Dominique—heart-of-steel, tough-as-nails, unwavering Dominique—had actually cried.

But when Roxanne thought of marrying Henry, all she felt was fear. Fear, that he would stop loving her. Fear, that he would leave her. Fear, that he would break her heart. And after all, she had only ever loved one man. What if she could never love anyone else?

Suddenly, Henry cleared his throat, and Roxanne swallowed, meeting his eyes.

"Rox," he said softly, and Roxanne felt goosebumps erupt on the back of her neck. "I love you. I want to be with you. I—I want to marry you."

Roxanne exhaled heavily, shaking her head. "Henry, I've told you a thousand times why I—why we can't," she said in a low voice. "You know I don't want kids. You know how much I travel for work. You—you _know_ this is a bad idea—"

"No, Rox, I don't," Henry said harshly, and Roxanne looked at him, startled. Henry jumped to his feet and began pacing back and forth in front of the coffee table. "We've been together for _fifteen_ years. D'you really think I'd have stayed with you all this time if I wasn't sure about this—about you?"

Roxanne rubbed her temples. "That's not what I—"

"What do I have to do, Roxanne?" Henry stopped pacing and flung a hand in the air, his expression desperate. "What do I have to do to prove myself?"

Roxanne clenched her jaw. "Henry—"

"I've told _you_ a thousand times, I don't want anything more than what you're willing to give me—"

" _Now_ , you don't!" Roxanne interrupted fiercely, leaping to her feet and seizing the front of Henry's jumper with her hands. " _Now_ , you don't want anything more! But what if you wake up one morning, twenty years down the line, and all you can think about is everything you _don't_ have because of me?"

Henry gaped at her. "Rox—"

"It could happen!" Roxanne cried in a strangled voice. "What if you resent me, because I never gave you any children? What if you resent the fact that I was out of the country for half our marriage? Have you ever— _ever_ —thought about that?"

Roxanne released Henry's jumper and stumbled backwards several feet, breathing heavily. There was a long, lingering silence, as Henry stared at her.

Then, suddenly, he took a step towards her. "I've asked you to marry me six times," he told her quietly. "And four years ago—I realized that…that I don't just _want_ to marry you anymore. I need to."

Roxanne's stomach lurched unpleasantly. Four Decembers ago, the cursed château in Paris to which Roxanne had been assigned at the time had exploded and collapsed inward, killing forty-eight Gringotts curse-breakers. And if Roxanne hadn't been in England on holiday leave that week, she would have been one of them.

Henry took another step towards her. "If something had happened to you—if you hadn't been home," he said fiercely, his eyes blazing, "I would've lost you forever. Marriage isn't a—a protection, or anything—but I could never forgive myself if I didn't give this—give _you_ —my one-hundred percent."

He took a final step towards her. Then, very slowly, he knelt down on the floor before her, reaching into the pocket of his jeans and producing a little violet box. Roxanne had seen this box—and its contents—so many times before that she had memorized it.

"Roxanne Morgana Weasley," Henry said softly, and a thrill of mingled exasperation and exhilaration chased down her spine. "I've loved you for fifteen years, and I have no intention of stopping—not now, not ever. You always say that you hate being caught off guard—so I've made this easy for you and given you six trial runs." In spite of herself, Roxanne snorted with laughter, rolling her eyes, and Henry grinned. "Will you please, for the love of Godric, marry me?"

Roxanne opened her mouth to answer—but then, almost against her own will, she closed it again. The 'no' was there, at the tip of her tongue, ready to be spoken. The reasons—they were there, too. And the fear, as well.

But then, suddenly, inexplicably, unbelievably, _impossibly_ , tears stung Roxanne's eyes—and the shock of this alone nearly caused her to cry out in astonishment. She, Roxanne Morgana Weasley, _never_ cried—not especially over a proposal that she had seen not once, not twice, but _six_ times already. Pressing her lips together, Roxanne glanced down at the diamond ring, so familiar—and then, up at Henry's face, also so familiar—at his bright blue eyes, which shone with hope, love, and warmth—and above all, a promise.

Six times Roxanne had been asked this question, and six times she had said no. And Merlin, there were a million reasons to say no—and she could list each and every single one of them.

But for the first time in her life, she didn't want to.

"Yes," she whispered.

Henry's face went blank. He blinked uncomprehendingly up at her. "What?"

Tears spilled down Roxanne's cheeks and she glared at Henry. "Are you seriously going to muck this up the one time I say yes?" she demanded, half-laughing, half-crying. "Yes, Henry, _yes_."

Henry's mouth fell open and he gaped at her for a moment. Then, slowly, a delirious smile spread across his face. With a strangled cry of amazement, he bounded to his feet and pulled Roxanne into his arms, kissing her zealously.

Roxanne laughed against his lips, embracing him tightly. Then, she drew back, wiping her eyes, and held out her left hand. And grinning broadly at her, as though she had given him everything he had ever wished for from the world, Henry took the ring from its box and slipped it onto her fourth finger, where it fit perfectly.

"It's going to be weird, not carrying this around anymore," Henry said numbly, holding up the little velvet box and staring at it.

Roxanne raised an eyebrow at him. "D'you want to be carrying it around again?"

Henry laughed, tossing the box over his shoulder, and Roxanne grinned, flinging her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his.

* * *

 _Make my wish come true._  
 _All I want for Christmas is you._

—Mariah Carey

* * *

Author's Note:

Heh. Cuties. I really loved writing Roxanne. She's such a formidable mix of her parents.

Next up is…AL! :D And the song will be 'Merry Christmas from the Family.' Get ready for some Weasley-Potter family fun!

Ari


	5. Albus: Merry Christmas from the Family

**V.**

 **Albus**

Merry Christmas from the Family

18 December 2030

* * *

 _Carve the turkey, turn the ball game on._  
 _Mix margaritas when the eggnog's gone._

* * *

It was midnight, and the Godric's Hollow rose garden was alive with soft laughter and chatter. The canopy of the wedding marquee was blowing gently in the chilly, wintry air, and although it was below freezing outside of the marquee, the inside of the tent was very warm and very relaxed. Fairy lights floated in the air above the numerous tables, and the band was playing a slow song, one of the final numbers of the evening.

Albus leaned back in his chair, yawning, as he glanced around the marquee. All of his wedding guests had left, and only family members remained. Rose and Scorpius were swaying in a small circle on the dance floor, as were Gran and Grandad and Uncle Bill and Aunt Fleur. Uncle George and Aunt Angelina were laughing together at a nearby table with Uncle Ron, Aunt Hermione, Freddie, Hugo, Roxanne, and Roxanne's boyfriend, Henry.

Uncle Percy and Aunt Audrey were sitting with Albus's new in-laws, Zacharias and Leanne Smith, and their son—Albus's new brother-in-law—Jasper. Molly and Lucy were there, too, smiling sleepily; Molly was resting her head on her mother's shoulder. In another quiet corner of the marquee, Uncle Charlie was chatting lazily with Louis and his wife, Adelaide. Louis's three-year-old daughter, Isabelle, was dozing off on Uncle Charlie's chest. Meanwhile, Lily and her new boyfriend, Tommy, were sitting with Teddy and Victoire, animatedly telling a bedtime story to six-year-old Remus and four-year-old John, while Victoire gently rocked one-year-old Pierre to sleep.

"Hey, Al, I think we're going to call it a night."

Albus startled, looking around. Dominique and her husband, Malcolm Wood—who happened to be one of Albus's best friends from Hogwarts—were standing in front of him, smiling tiredly. Their one-month-old son, Ollie, was fast asleep in the crook of Dominique's arm. Albus grinned at them, climbing to his feet.

"Thanks for coming," he said warmly, giving Dominique a very gentle hug, so as not to disturb the baby.

"Of course, Al," Dominique beamed at him, kissing his cheek. Then, she winked. "I'd never miss my favorite cousin's wedding."

Albus chuckled. "Best not let James catch you saying that."

"Oh, I think James's ego can afford to be taken down a peg or two," Dominique said airily, rolling her eyes. "The bloke gets bumped up from Puddlemere's reserves, and suddenly, he thinks he's the best thing to happen to the Wizarding world since Dumbledore."

Albus laughed, shaking his head. "Well, I'll see you both later. We should get together for tea sometime soon."

"Definitely," Malcolm grinned, clapping Albus's shoulder. "Congratulations again, mate."

"Tell Emily goodbye for us," Dominique called, waving at him over her shoulder, as she and Malcolm walked towards the marquee's entrance.

Albus waved back, smiling. Then, releasing a soft sigh, he sat back down in his chair, running a hand through his untidy black hair.

"Was that Dom and Malcolm I just saw leave?"

Albus looked up. James had appeared, holding a bottle of Firewhisky and two scotch glasses. The collar of his dress robes was rumpled and his bowtie was slung carelessly around his neck.

"Yep," Albus nodded.

James grinned, shaking his head. "It's been two years, and I still don't understand how Malcolm landed Dom. I remember the days when he couldn't look a girl in the eye for turning into a bloody tomato." Pouring a generous amount of Firewhisky into each of the scotch glasses, James pushed one across the table towards his younger brother.

Albus laughed, picking up his glass and swilling the drink around. "Well, to be fair, I don't think much has changed. He still looks like a proper idiot whenever Dom's about."

"Sort of like how you look whenever Emily's about?"

Both Albus and James jumped, looking up. Dad had arrived at the table. Smiling, he dropped into the empty chair next to James's and conjured himself a scotch glass with a flick of his wand. Without missing a beat, James picked up the Firewhisky bottle again and poured some of the amber liquid into Dad's glass.

"I don't look like an idiot around Emily," Albus said defensively, once Dad had taken a sip.

James snorted. " _Please_ , Al. You're almost as stupid around Emily as Dad is around Mum."

Albus glared at his brother, but Dad laughed.

"You know, James, it's not such a bad thing to have a woman you can look stupid around," Dad said lightly.

"Speaking of which," Albus added, grinning wickedly. "How are things going with _Alice?_ "

James's cheeks turned slightly pink, much to Albus's satisfaction, and he suddenly became very interested in the rim of his scotch glass. "Fine," he said nonchalantly.

Albus caught his father's eye and smirked. James rarely worked hard for anything; he was a born Quidditch player and had effortlessly played his way into the heart and soul of Puddlemere United's starting team. But Alice Longbottom made him work— _hard_.

"You know," James said thoughtfully, after a few moments of comfortable silence, "I always thought I'd be the first one in this family to get married."

Albus and Dad snorted identically. "I didn't," they said in unison.

James rolled his eyes. "Thanks, both of you," he said sarcastically.

Dad grinned, clapping James's back affectionately. "Mate, if I didn't know for a fact which one of you came first, I'd swear Lily was the oldest."

At this, both Albus and James smiled, looking across the marquee at their younger sister, who was now lying on the floor, gazing sleepily up at the ceiling. Remus and John were tucked comfortably against either side of her, snoring contentedly.

"She's a special one, our Lily," Albus said warmly, taking a sip of Firewhisky.

"All Potter women are," Dad said softly, staring at a point somewhere over Albus's shoulder.

Frowning, Albus turned around to see Mum, Alice, and Emily walking down the marquee, arm-in-arm and laughing. Emily was still wearing her long, flowy white wedding gown, though she had seemingly disposed of her sandals. Her dark auburn hair was coming free of its golden, crown-like ornamentation and was beginning to hang loosely down her back in the soft, gentle waves that Albus so loved. The mere sight of her filled Albus with a mingled warmth and pride that had very little to do with the Firewhisky he had just imbibed.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the Potter boys," Mum crowed playfully, as she neared the table. Grinning, she bent down and kissed the top of Dad's head. "We can spot you three from a mile away, thanks to these ridiculous mops you call hair."

"Hey—it's not our fault," James said defensively, reaching up at once and running a hand through his messy black hair. "I swear, one of our ancestors must've been hit in the head by some dysfunctional Transfiguration spell or something."

"You know, the irony is that my grandfather—that is, my dad's dad—was the inventor of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion," Dad said in a mildly amused voice, shaking his head.

"I didn't know that," said Mum in a tone of surprise. "Where did you find that out?"

"Oh, Hermione saw it in one of those old Wizarding genealogy books she loves to poke around in," Dad said, smiling. "She thought I might find it interesting."

"Oh, Harry, that's so cool!" gasped Alice, her gray eyes alight with excitement. "I've been using Sleekeazy's for _years!_ I had no idea!"

"Well, Alice, if you marry me, you can marry right into the Sleekeazy's fortune," James told her cheekily, waggling his eyebrows.

Without batting an eye, Alice raised her hand and flicked James's forehead, causing him to jump and yelp in pain. "Nice try, Potter, but I'm going to need a better proposal than that," she said sardonically.

Mum and Dad laughed.

Chuckling across the table at his brother, Albus reached out and wrapped an arm around his fiancée's— _wife's_ , he corrected himself—waist. Emily looked up and smiled, coming closer to him and taking a seat in his lap.

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Potter," Albus whispered in her ear, causing her to shiver slightly.

"Merlin's pants, that sounds different," she murmured back, grinning. "Hmm…how d'you feel about becoming Mr. Albus Smith instead?"

Albus smirked, reaching up and tickling her neck, and Emily gave a little squeal, giggling and swatting his hand away.

Albus grinned, moving his fingers unconsciously to tangle them in Emily's long, dark red hair. "So," he said, after a few moments. "Are we going to stick with this marriage thing, then? My family hasn't scared you away yet?"

Emily laughed, leaning back against Albus's chest. "Honestly, Al," she sighed softly, taking his hand and interlacing their fingers. "I love your family."

Albus glanced over the top of Emily's head. Alice was now sitting on the table in front of James, teasingly holding his Firewhisky glass out of his reach. Next to them, Mum and Dad were gazing nauseatingly into each other's eyes, completely oblivious to all else. Meanwhile, out on the dance floor, Rose and Scorpius had stopped dancing and were now bickering instead, much to the entertainment of Gran, Granddad, Uncle Bill, and Aunt Fleur. At the neighboring table, Uncle Ron looked like he wanted to march over and join the argument himself, for he kept muttering darkly and reaching into his dress robes for his wand—but Aunt Hermione was restraining him with a long-suffering look on her face. Uncle George, Aunt Angelina, Freddie, Hugo, Roxanne, and Henry were all laughing at him.

Uncle Percy and Zacharias had struck up a game of chess, aided by Aunt Audrey and Leanne, who were egging their husbands on far too enthusiastically. Jasper, Molly, and Lucy were observing their parents' game with a mixture of embarrassment and amusement.

Louis and Uncle Charlie—who was still carrying little Isabelle—were singing an exuberant chorus of 'Odo the Hero' in their corner of the marquee, while Adelaide watched them, giggling helplessly. Lily, it seemed, had fallen asleep on the floor of the marquee and now looked quite as young and small as Remus and John, both of whom were still curled up against her. Teddy and Victoire were feeding each other slices of wedding cake, but were purposely missing their marks and simply smearing frosting all over each other's faces instead. And Lily's new boyfriend, Tommy—who was holding Teddy and Victoire's drowsy one-year-old—had dozed off with his face mashed in a plate of cake.

Shaking his head slowly, Albus leaned forward to whisper in Emily's ear again. "Good. Because it's too late to back out, now."

* * *

 _Hallelujah, everybody say, "Cheese."_  
 _Merry Christmas from the family._

—Robert Earl Keene

* * *

Author's Note:

I LOVE THIS FAMILY.

I'm posting this a little later than usual because I've been traveling and my internet has been spotty, but here we are with Albus Severus :)

Fun fact: Albus's wife, Emily Smith, is Zacharias Smith's daughter. In my head canon, Zacharias is the younger brother of Audrey (Percy's wife), so Percy's kids and Zacharias's kids are cousins. You can find them, along with a number of other OCs from this story, in my story 'Little Wonders.'

I have *so much* head canon about the Smith family that I've never written about. I see them as a wealthy pure-blood family, descended from Helga Hufflepuff herself. Zacharias is the youngest (and the only son) of five children, which is why he's such a spoiled, insufferable prat. XD

Anywho…our next chapter will be about Molly, with the song 'Last Christmas' by Wham! :)


	6. Molly: Last Christmas

Author's Note:

I usually dislike putting notes before chapters, but I'm making an exception here: I highly recommend listening to (or at least looking at the lyrics of) the song 'Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da' by the Beatles before reading this chapter. It won't make as much sense otherwise! :D

* * *

 **VI.**

 **Molly**

Last Christmas

19 December 2035

* * *

 _Last Christmas, I gave you my heart,_  
 _But the very next day, you gave it away._

* * *

Molly tugged her scarf more snugly around her neck, brushing a few flakes of snow from her shoulders, as she ducked into a tiny Muggle thrift store and glanced around nervously. She had never been here before—but Roxanne, who loved frequenting odd, little secondhand shops like this one, had deemed the locale the perfect place to buy a Christmas present for their Muggle-obsessed grandfather. And as Molly was woefully behind on her Christmas shopping this year, she had decided to surrender to Roxanne's advice.

Swallowing and wrapping her arms around herself, Molly wandered aimlessly down several aisles of china teapots. Last Christmas, just twelve months earlier, she had been in love and happily married. Now, a messy divorce later, she felt horribly old, horribly alone, and horribly, horribly unhappy. She had been planning on skiving off Christmas Eve at the Burrow altogether this year…but much to Molly's utter frustration, Gran had refused to take no for an answer…

Releasing a dull, shuddering breath, Molly stepped backwards suddenly—and stumbled directly into something large, warm, and solid. Swiveling around, she came face-to-face with a pair of crinkled, green eyes.

"Sorry, ma'am," the tall, young sales assistant said in a deep voice, reaching out and steadying her. "Didn't see you there. Can I help you find something?"

"Erm," Molly hesitated, biting her lip. "I…well, I'm just looking for some Mug—er—I mean, some old-fashioned artifacts. You know, like—er—an alarm clock, or—or an old camera, or—something," Molly finished rather lamely. "It—it's for my grandad."

The shop assistant raised his eyebrows. "You're buying something old-fashioned for your grandad?"

Molly felt her face flood with color. "I—it's just—well, he didn't have a lot, growing up," she invented wildly. "He—his family was poor." It wasn't altogether a lie—although it certainly wasn't her best work, either.

But the shop assistant seemed satisfied. "Ah," he nodded understandingly. "Well, I think I have the perfect gift, then. Come with me."

Molly frowned, following the friendly-faced Muggle man past several aisles, until they reached the very back of the store. There, the man bent over a very untidy pile of jumbled products and withdrew an enormous, brown contraption that had a long, golden, horn-like object protruding from it. Grinning, he set it down in front of Molly.

"Er," Molly blinked rapidly, bewildered. "What is that?" she asked, without thinking.

The shop assistant stared at her in disbelief. "Well, I know it's old-fashioned, ma'am, but it's not _that_ old-fashioned." When Molly looked still-nonplussed, he continued slowly, "It's a gramophone. You know…to listen to music."

"Oh— _oh_ ," Molly gasped, comprehension dawning. She vaguely remembered seeing a similar apparatus in her Aunt Hermione's study as a child. "Oh, that's perfect!"

The shop assistant shook his head, smiling bemusedly, as he leaned down and heaved the enormous gramophone into his arms again. "Will you be wanting some music as well?"

"Oh—no, thank you," Molly said quickly, scuttling behind him towards the clerk's counter. "I'm pretty sure my aunt has some. But—erm—thank you very much—" she glanced at his nametag, "—Desmond." Frowning thoughtfully, she cocked her head to the side. "That's an Irish name, isn't it?"

Desmond chuckled, setting the gramophone down on the counter. "I wouldn't know," he said, shrugging. "I'm Welsh. Cardiff, born and raised." As he said it, his accent became very pronounced. "My mum just liked the name—from the Beatles' song."

Molly stared confusedly at Desmond, and his face split into an incredulous smile. "Don't tell me you've never heard of the Beatles," he said disbelievingly.

Molly blushed furiously and stared down at the counter, feeling foolish. Dimly, she wondered how Roxanne got away with knowing so little about the Muggle world in shops like this—but then again, Roxanne's finest gift was the ability to lie through her teeth.

"Well, ma'am, it's probably a good thing you're buying your granddad a gramophone this Christmas," Desmond said, chuckling. "I think you're going to need it a lot more than he does. Anyway, that'll be seventy-five pounds. It's on sale for the holidays."

Ignoring the burning heat that was still prickling in her cheeks, Molly rummaged through her purse for the Muggle money she had secured earlier that day and dropped the correct amount unceremoniously onto the table without meeting Desmond's eye. Humming unconcernedly to himself, Desmond picked up the notes and began counting them. After he was done, he gave a satisfied nod and set the money aside, bending down and producing a large brown paper bag.

"What's your name, anyway?" he asked casually, as he lifted the gramophone into the bag.

"Molly," she muttered under her breath.

Desmond gave a sudden, slightly strangled laugh, and Molly jumped, startled. "What—?"

"You're _joking_ ," he grinned, his eyes alight with incredulous excitement.

Molly stared at him, slightly fearful for his sanity. "No," she said slowly. "That's my actual name."

Desmond ran a hand through his hair, still grinning broadly at her. "I—that's mad," he declared, shaking his head. "Desmond and Molly—we were _just_ talking about— _oh_ , but you've never heard of the Beatles," he sighed heavily. "All right, that's it."

Turning around suddenly, he began rifling through a towering stack of square envelopes behind him; Molly watched him in bewilderment. Finally, after a few moments, he procured a large black envelope that had the words 'OB-LA-DI, OB-LA-DA' scrawled across the center in enormous, neon-green letters. And underneath these nonsensical words, in looping, golden text, was the phrase _'Life goes on.'_

Molly reached out and accepted the envelope from Desmond, utterly perturbed. "I don't—"

"It's a record," Desmond said warmly. "And it's on me. You'll understand when you hear it." He paused and cocked his head to the side, his green eyes suddenly piercing. "You look like you could use a little music in your life," he added softly.

Molly stiffened and clenched her jaw, staring up at Desmond in shock. But there was no pity, no derision, no cruelty in his expression. Rather, he was smiling.

Swallowing heavily, Molly picked up the large gramophone and backed away from the counter. "Thanks," she whispered.

Then, she turned on her heel and hurried out of the store, back into the frosty winter air, feeling inexplicably as though—for the time being, at least—a tiny bit of the leaden weight in her chest had dissipated.

Because after all, life went on.

* * *

 _This year, to save me from tears,_  
 _I'll give it to someone special._

—Wham!

* * *

Author's Note:

Sigh. I put Molly through a lot. She definitely had a rough time of it this Christmas. She's not normally so quiet and sad; I imagine her as typically being very sharp and witty.

But yes, Molly eventually ends up with a Muggle named Desmond. XD I blame my family: we grew up listening to (and loving) the Beatles in my fam.

Next up will be Lucy with 'Please Come Home for Christmas.' Glad you're enjoying these!


	7. Lucy: Please Come Home for Christmas

**VII.**

 **Lucy**

Please Come Home for Christmas

20 December 2033

* * *

 _But this is Christmas, yes, Christmas, my dear,  
_ _The time of year to be with the ones you love._

* * *

"If Lysander ever takes off on one of these surprise business trips again, I'll just…ooh…" Lucy muttered under her breath, closing her eyes and massaging her temples.

"Give him a time-out?" Molly suggested snidely, smirking at Lucy from across their booth at the Leaky Cauldron.

Lucy opened her eyes and threw her elder sister a filthy look. "Shut up, Mol."

"What?" Molly asked lightly, still smirking. "He's twenty, Luce. He's in the prime of life—"

"He's only three years younger than me, as you very well know," Lucy said through gritted teeth, glaring at Molly.

"Yeah," Molly said, grinning. "Three _years_. Think about how much happens in three years—learning how to read, learning how to write, puberty—"

"Molly, for Merlin's sake, leave her alone."

Lucy looked up. Ellie and Mac, friends of hers and Molly's from Hogwarts, were standing over their table, smiling. They were both wearing pale yellow Leaky Cauldron aprons.

"Are you two finally off work, then?" Lucy asked, scooting over on her bench to give Ellie room to sit down. Mac fell into the empty seat next to Molly.

"No," Ellie shrugged, stealing Lucy's Butterbeer and taking a sip. "But that's the nice thing about working for your mum—you can take a lunch hour whenever you feel like it."

"Would you like me to tell Auntie Hannah you said that?" Mac asked, raising an eyebrow, and Ellie blushed slightly, swatting her arm.

"Hello, hello!" cried a merry voice suddenly. "Happy holidays, girlies!"

Lucy looked around, grinning. Roxanne had just entered the Cauldron in her characteristic burst of color and sound. She was wearing a gorgeous, sweeping cloak of a brilliant turquoise blue, and a shimmering golden scarf was draped around her neck—it was the type of outfit Lucy was fairly certain that only Roxanne could pull off. A few paces behind Roxanne were Lily, wearing a thick winter coat over her lime green St. Mungo's robes, and Alice Longbottom Potter, in Auror garb.

Beaming, the three women walked over to the booth that Lucy, Molly, Ellie, and Mac were sharing. Alice sat down next to Ellie, pinching her younger sister's cheek affectionately. Meanwhile, Roxanne and Lily took seats next to Mac.

It was a long-established tradition. After Lucy, the youngest in her family, had graduated from Hogwarts, she, Molly, Roxanne, and Lily had vowed to meet each other for lunch at the Cauldron at least once a month, usually accompanied by the Longbottom sisters and Mac. Life, love, and labor kept them all very busy, but the seven of them had been fierce friends all throughout school—despite being scattered across three years and two houses—and none of them were willing to compromise that friendship for anything.

"I'm sorry to bring work to lunch with me today, ladies," Roxanne sighed, pulling a miniature wireless radio out of her cloak and setting it down on the table, "but there's been a security breach at the château in Paris I'm working at—some drunk tourist thought it would be funny to sneak a firework inside and light it. I'm supposed to keep an ear out for any updates."

Drawing her wand, Roxanne rapped it on top of the wireless, enlarging it. Then, with another flick of her wand, the wireless stuttered to life. Roxanne fiddled with the knobs, bringing the broadcast down to the lowest volume, and Lucy caught a few feeble snippets: "…Parisian Hit Wizards have evacuated the top two floors of the ancient building…the bottom three floors remain to be evacuated…"

"Hang on— _Paris?_ " Molly asked suddenly, eyes widening. "Luce, that's where Lysander's gone!"

Lucy nodded, swallowing. "He's part of the group of W.W.N. journalists that Lee Jordan rounded up to help cover the breach onsite." She glanced at Roxanne, trying to keep her tone and expression nonchalant. "Everything's all right though, right? No one was—hurt—or anything?"

"Everything's fine," Roxanne assured her. "Luckily, of all the Wizarding sites in France this moron could've picked to light a firework in, he picked the location containing a hundred curse-breakers. It took them about two seconds to contain the damage—but they're still evacuating everyone to be safe."

Lucy nodded and leaned back, her heartrate relaxing slightly.

"Anyway, I'm bloody starving," Roxanne declared, craning her head and trying to catch the eye of a nearby waiter. "Who wants some chicken? It's on me."

There was a chorus of appreciative agreement, and Roxanne grinned, hailing the waiter over.

Twenty minutes later, the seven girls were chatting contentedly over plates of Hannah Longbottom's finest roast chicken and mugs of warm Butterbeer.

"That's a beautiful cloak, Roxanne," Molly said admiringly, reaching across the booth and fingering the stunning turquoise material. "Where'd you get it?"

"Where d'you think she got it?" Lily rolled her eyes, before Roxanne could answer. "Malkin's, of course. I swear, Roxy gives that place half its business."

"But clothes aren't the only attraction," Alice added slyly, and all of the girls—including Roxanne—laughed. Roxanne's long-time boyfriend, Henry Malkin, was the owner of the apparel store.

"I was actually hoping to stop by Malkin's today after my shift ends," Ellie said, glancing at her wristwatch. "I need new dress robes for Uncle Ernie and Aunt Susan's Christmas party. What time does it close, Rox?"

"Usually nine, but Henry's closing early today," Roxanne said, swallowing a mouthful of chicken. "He's taking me to the Beauregard Hotel for dinner."

"The Beauregard Hotel?" Lucy asked, raising her eyebrows. "That's extravagant."

"He must be gearing up for proposal number six," Mac said shrewdly, winking at Roxanne, and the table erupted with giggles again.

Roxanne snorted humorlessly. "I'll hex him if he tries."

"Honestly, I don't understand why you won't just say _yes_ already, Rox," Lily smiled exasperatedly, lifting her own left hand and wiggling her fingers. Her golden wedding band twinkled in the light. She and her husband, Thomas Dunstan—a fellow-Healer at the Maribel Monrova Maternity Ward in St. Mungo's—had been married for four months now. "Being married is fantastic."

"It really is," Molly agreed earnestly. She raised her left hand, too, and showed off her sterling silver, three-carat diamond ring.

"Definitely," Alice added, grinning. "Waiting for James to pull his head out of his arse was well worth it in the end."

The girls all chuckled, shaking their heads.

"Of course," Molly said slyly, looking at Lucy, "sometimes, waiting for your boyfriend to grow up isn't a figurative thing."

Lucy's smile faded. Clenching her fork tightly in her hand, she glowered at her sister.

"Sometimes, it's quite literal," Molly continued airily.

Lucy dropped her fork onto her plate with a clatter and climbed to her feet, her ears burning. "I've got to use the loo," she said abruptly.

Gritting her teeth and pushing past Ellie and Alice, Lucy swept away from the booth and towards the restrooms in the corner of the pub. As she left, she heard Mac snap, "Too far, Mol."

But Lucy didn't turn back around. Pressing her lips together in an attempt to dislodge the painful lump in her throat, she stalked down the corridor, flung open the door to the ladies' loo, and slammed it shut behind her, locking it with a wave of her wand. Then, she sank to the ground and leaned back against the door, burying her head in her knees.

Did Molly think that Lucy didn't realize that Lysander was three years younger than her? Did Molly think that Lucy hadn't spent _four months_ rejecting his advances, for that _very_ reason? She could remember him as a toddler, for Merlin's sake! She could remember him as a scrawny third year Hufflepuff, trailing after her and her seventh year friends, trying to keep up.

But he wasn't fourteen anymore, and Lucy had known that the moment he'd walked up to the clerk's counter in Flourish and Blotts the previous summer and asked her to dinner. He was tall, and blond, and quite striking—if in an unconventional way—and when Lucy looked at him, she didn't see the funny, little teenager he'd once been. So, why couldn't Molly accept that? After all, nobody had given Dominique any grief when she'd married Malcolm Wood, a man nearly four years her junior—but then again, Lucy reckoned that nobody took the mickey out of Dominique and lived to tell the tale…

And suddenly, Molly's words from earlier that afternoon came back to Lucy, in a nasty, gnawing little voice: _he's in the prime of life_. Well, her sister was right, wasn't she? Lysander _was_ younger—and clever, and adventurous, and…and what if he realized that, in a few years, Lucy wouldn't be anymore?

Suddenly, there was a knock on the bathroom door, and Lucy jumped, hastily wiping her eyes. "Sorry," she called, sniffing. "I'll be just a minute."

"Luce, it's me," came Molly's voice.

Lucy stiffened. There was a long, lingering pause.

Then— "What d'you want?" Lucy snapped. "Come to have another go at my love life?"

"No," Molly said, sounding ashamed. "I'm—I want to apologize. I'm sorry, Luce. You know…you know I don't mean the things I say. I was just being stupid."

Lucy closed her eyes, releasing a slow breath. Then, with a shake of her head, she climbed to her feet and unlocked the bathroom door, opening it slowly. Molly stood in the doorframe, tall and rail-thin like their father—but her shoulders were slumped with embarrassment, making her seem Lucy's height. She met Lucy's eyes, swallowing.

"I'm sorry, Luce," she said meekly. "I didn't mean it."

Lucy sighed, stepping forward and embracing her sister. "It's all right," she said dully, patting Molly's back. "You…weren't completely wrong, I suppose."

Molly pulled back. "What're you talking about?" she asked, frowning.

Lucy swallowed, crossing her arms. "He _is_ young, Molly," she said quietly. "Three years…it doesn't seem like much now, but…what if—what if it becomes a lot, later on? What if…" Lucy trailed off, averting her gaze from her sister's. "What if he gets—bored?"

Molly made a loud, impatient noise, and Lucy jumped, startled.

"Lucy, I'm only going to say this once, so listen up," Molly said sharply. "Lysander Scamander is in _love_ with you. He has been since he was about five. Only an idiot like you wouldn't see that."

Lucy opened her mouth angrily, but Molly cut her off.

"He's never going to get bored of you, Luce," she said softly, reaching out and squeezing Lucy's hand. "If anything…he's probably wondering why you haven't yet."

Lucy closed her mouth, blinking rapidly.

"Mum's three years older than Dad, you know," Molly said, shrugging. "And I think we can both agree that they've got the most disgustingly happy marriage in all of England."

In spite of herself, Lucy laughed, shaking her head. Molly smiled, drawing an arm around Lucy's shoulders. "Come on," she said encouragingly. "Let's get back to our table. Your chicken's getting cold."

Lucy sighed and nodded, putting her arm around Molly's waist, and together, they walked down the corridor and back into the pub's main room, towards their booth in the corner. But the moment they were a few feet away, Lucy knew that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Roxanne, Lily, Alice, Ellie, and Mac were all gazing at the wireless radio on the table with expressions of frozen horror. Heart stuttering to a stop, Lucy flew down the remainder of the pub, Molly a few paces behind her.

"What's happened?" Lucy demanded. "What—?" she broke off, gasping loudly and clapping her hands over her mouth. " _That's Lysander_ —!"

" _Shh_ , Lucy," Molly hushed her fiercely, bending over the table to listen to the broadcast. Lucy clamped her mouth shut, mirroring her sister.

"…unprecedented explosion occurred at two thirty-eight p.m.," Lysander's voice was uncharacteristically sharp, strangled, and frantic, and Lucy felt her insides turn to ice. "The explosion caused the top two floors of the château to collapse, crushing the bottom three—which were in the process of being evacuated.

"The death count is currently twenty-six, but there are hundreds more injured. L'Hôpital Bonaccord of Paris appears to have reached maximum capacity, and has reportedly begun transporting wounded patients to other magical hospitals in Europe, including St. Mungo's Hospital in London and Hospital Santa Eldora in Barcelona. Experts are saying that the explosion was triggered by an aftershock—" Lysander's voice broke off abruptly, and suddenly, Lucy heard loud screams in the background.

Then, with a faint _click_ , the wireless went completely silent.

There was a shivering pause, the shock of the moment suspended.

Then, Roxanne swore loudly and vociferously, leaping to her feet and yanking out her wand. Without a word to anyone, she sprinted towards the back entrance of the pub, to the courtyard that separated it from Diagon Alley. Lucy knew that she was heading to the bank.

Heart pounding against her ribs, Lucy turned and looked at the others. Lily and Alice had both risen to their feet as well, their faces set and white.

"I've got to get to the hospital," Lily said abruptly. "I'll see you all later." She brushed past Molly and Lucy.

After giving her younger sister a swift hug, Alice turned and followed Lily to the front entrance of the pub, tinkering with a golden medallion on the breast pocket of her Auror robes. Lucy recognized it at once—she had seen Teddy and Albus use it to communicate with their fellow-Aurors before.

A gust of cold air entered the pub, as Alice pulled the door open. It seemed to linger in the atmosphere long after the door had swung shut behind her.

"Oh, my God," Ellie whispered, covering her mouth with her hands. She was still gazing at the silent wireless in shock. "Oh, my God…"

"Doesn't your aunt have family in France, Molly—Lucy?" Mac asked suddenly, her eyes wide with terror. "Victoire and Dominique's mum?"

"They live in in Marseilles," Molly said shakily, before Lucy could answer. "They're nowhere near Paris. But…if Roxy hadn't been home…"

A dreadful chill stole over Lucy and she was suddenly overcome by a terrible lightheadedness.

"Molly," she said faintly, tugging on the sleeve of her sister's robes. "Bring the broadcast back. I need to hear Lysander."

"Lucy, I think the broadcast's over," Ellie said, her voice trembling.

"No," Lucy said feebly, her head spinning horribly. "No…I need to hear…"

"Lucy?" Mac half-rose from the table, her tone anxious.

" _Lucy!_ " Molly screamed, as Lucy's knees buckled.

* * *

"Oh, thank Merlin."

Lucy's eyes flew open. She was lying on a bed in a dimly lit bedroom, staring up at a pale blue ceiling. She blinked blearily, and Molly's white face swam into view, as she placed something cool and damp on Lucy's forehead.

"Whuzgoin' on?" Lucy asked groggily. "Where'm I?"

"My bedroom at the Cauldron," said Ellie's shaky voice from somewhere nearby.

"Are you all right, Luce?" Molly asked softly.

Lucy blinked hazily again. Then, slowly, she pushed herself up onto her elbows and looked around. Molly and Ellie were both sitting at the foot of the bed, looking terrified.

"Where's Mac?" Lucy wondered.

"Downstairs, helping Mum in the kitchen," Ellie whispered.

Lucy nodded, closing her eyes and swallowing. She took a slow, deep breath. Then— "And where—where's Lysander?"

A chilling silence greeted her ears, and Lucy opened her eyes. Molly was biting her lip. Lucy's stomach plummeted sickeningly.

"Molly—"

"He's on his way home," Molly interrupted, seizing Lucy's hand and squeezing her fingers. "We—we think. I Flooed Dad while you were unconscious, and he said that the Department's been setting up Portkeys for everyone trapped in Paris. Lee Jordan and his crew should've been the first back. I—I'm going to have to head to the Ministry soon to help out."

Tears stung Lucy's eyes, but she nodded, pressing her lips together. "Right."

There was a dull pause, and Lucy turned away from her sister and her best friend to stare at the bedroom's pale blue wall, trying to ignore the painfully sharp weight in her stomach.

"Lucy," Ellie said softly. "I'm sure he's—"

Suddenly, there was a scuffle outside the bedroom door and three loud knocks. Ellie gave a little gasp and jumped to her feet, hurrying to open it.

" _Lysander_ —?"

"Where's Lucy?"

Lucy whipped her head around, her heart leaping into her throat. Lysander—covered in grime, his robes ripped and sullied, but his body mercifully unscathed—had tumbled into the room, panting. His large silvery-gray eyes found her blue ones, and the very next second, Lucy was wrapped in his arms. Fear and anxiety were melting into overwhelming, overwhelming relief so quickly that Lucy couldn't hold back her tears. They began falling, hot, and thick, and fast. She was only dimly aware of Molly and Ellie telling her that they were going to get back to work. Lysander's embrace was crushing and suffocating—but Lucy didn't care—because it was real— _he_ was real—he was _alive_ —

"What the hell, Luce?" Lysander demanded in a strangled voice as he pulled away, though he was smiling widely. "I get to the Ministry and the first thing your dad tells me is that you're out cold!"

Lucy laughed loudly, wiping her eyes. "You _know_ my dad, Lysander. He's the most dramatic person in England. Where d'you think Molly got it from?"

Lysander grinned, reaching out and gently touching the side of Lucy's face. Lucy shivered slightly, several more tears slipping down her cheeks.

"I love you, Lucy," he said softly. "I needed to say that. There were a few times today that I thought I might never get to say it again."

It was a simple, honest statement, like many of the things Lysander said—and it caused Lucy's heart to somersault in her chest.

"I love you, too," she whispered.

Lysander beamed at her. "I got you something."

Lucy's eyes widened. "What—?"

Lysander reached into his dirty, ragged robes and withdrew a tiny mistletoe, holding it up between their heads. Lucy stared up at it, mouth falling open. Then, in spite of everything she had felt in the past hour—in spite of everything she was still feeling—she burst out laughing.

"Lorcan came down to the Ministry to meet me when my Portkey arrived," Lysander said, grinning. "He shoved it into my hands when I told him I was going to see you—for luck, he said. Don't worry, he's already checked it for Nargles—"

That was as far as he got, for Lucy had seized his grubby collar and kissed him soundly.

* * *

 _So, won't you tell me you'll never more roam?  
_ _Christmas and New Year's will find you home._

—Eagles

* * *

Author's Note:

I picture Lysander as a romantic and a Hufflepuff like Rolf. Lorcan's more intense and pensive, a quiet genius and a Ravenclaw like dear Luna. But they're both super adventurous people. And I do love Lucy!

The Paris explosion from this chapter is something that's been in my Next Gen head canon for a long time, but this is the first time I'm really writing about it. It's the biggest disaster in Wizarding Europe since Voldemort's reign, but it's NOT another war. It's just the unfortunate consequence of an idiotic tourist...the sort of tragedy that really hits hard because its cause was something so stupid.

Anyway, get excited for...LILY LUNA! She's up next, and her song will be 'Angels Among Us.' It's one of my two favorite chapters :)


	8. Lily: Angels Among Us

**VIII.**

 **Lily**

Angels Among Us

21 December 2036

* * *

 _Oh, I believe there are angels among us._  
 _They come to you and me in our darkest hours,_

* * *

Lily stood on the porch of her parents' house, gazing out towards the village. She had forgotten how beautiful Godric's Hollow was during Christmastime. Rooftops—both Muggle and Wizarding—twinkled with strings of color-changing lights, doorsteps were decked with wreathes and mistletoe, and beyond the smattering of trees in her parents' front yard, Lily could just see the distant outline of St. Jerome's Church's enormous cross, festooned with garlands of holly. Dad would probably visit Granny Lily and Grandad James's grave in the church graveyard on Christmas Eve, as he usually did. Perhaps Lily would accompany him this year.

She smiled slightly, drawing her cloak more snugly. She loved living in London—it allowed her to be close to the hospital, in case she was ever called in for an emergency…but she had always imagined moving back to Godric's Hollow someday…to start a family…raise her own children…

Lily closed her eyes. Then, taking a deep breath, she turned back around to face the front door.

"Maybe they aren't home," she murmured, wrapping her arms around herself and rubbing her elbows.

"Maybe," said Tommy from next to her, frowning at his wristwatch. "But where else would they be—?"

At that very moment, the front door swung open, and Dad appeared at the threshold, smiling bemusedly.

"Lily, I didn't know you were coming over," he said in a pleasantly surprised tone. "Hello, Tommy."

"Hi, Harry," Tommy smiled, reaching out and shaking his father-in-law's hand. "Can we come in?"

"Of course," Dad said, stepping aside, and Lily followed Tommy into the foyer. "Ginny!" Dad called up the staircase, as he walked past it. "Lily and Tommy are here!"

Lily took her husband's hand, and together, they made their way into the cottage's cozy sitting room, where Dad had already lit a fire in the fireplace and was now settling into his armchair. Heart racing, Lily pressed her lips together and took a seat on the sofa opposite her father. Tommy sat down next to her, squeezing her fingers reassuringly.

"So," Dad smiled across the coffee table at Lily. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Well…" Lily said slowly, exchanging a half-glance with Tommy. "We…we have some…news."

"News?"

Lily jumped, looking around. Mum had appeared in the sitting room doorway, wearing her reading glasses and an expression of mingled hope and fear that was all-too-familiar to Lily—for it was an expression that Lily herself had worn, on-and-off, for the past three years.

Three years.

It had been nearly three whole years since the day that she and Tommy had first decided to try for a child. Three years of disappointment, agony, and frustration. Despair. Desperation. Countless, pointless consultations. A fertility potions regimen that had made her so ill and miserable that it had been like drinking depression. The bitter irony of the situation had not been lost on Lily, that two people who spent their days—and nights—delivering other witches' children at St. Mungo's could not seem to have their own…

"Lily," Mum said gently, as she walked into the sitting room and came to stand by Dad's chair, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Lily, sweetheart, are you…?"

The unfinished question lingered densely in the air. Lily took a slow, deep breath, and glanced at Tommy. He swallowed heavily, but gave her a tiny, encouraging smile nonetheless.

Lily looked at her mother again. "No," she murmured.

For a fleeting moment, Mum's face fell—but then, the very next instant, she had hitched a reassuring smile onto her face. "Well," she said softly. "Just because it hasn't happened yet, it doesn't mean it never will, sweetheart. You know, it took your Aunt Audrey six years to have Mol—"

"Mum," Lily interrupted quietly, and Mum fell silent, blinking rapidly. Lily glanced at her father; he was frowning.

"Lils," he said slowly. "You…you said you had news."

An enormous lump swelled in Lily's throat as she looked at her father, and she found herself suddenly unable to speak. Clutching Tommy's hand tightly, she turned away from her parents and stared at the flickering fireplace, trying to regain control of herself.

Tommy watched her for a moment, biting his lip. Then, clearing his throat, he turned back to face Lily's parents.

"Earlier this year—in February," Tommy began in a low voice, "we found out that—that there was a very good chance that…children might never happen for us."

In spite of herself, Lily glanced at her parents. Mum had covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes wide, and Dad's expression looked very heavy.

"Oh, _Lily_ ," Mum whispered, shaking her head. "Why didn't you say—?"

"A lot of reasons," Lily said in a slightly strained voice. "But mostly because…I didn't want to disappoint you."

Mum's expression became stern. "Lily Luna, that isn't—you could _never_ disappoint—"

"I know that now," Lily said earnestly, sniffing. "It…it took some time to get used to the idea, but…I know that now." She paused, wiping her nose with her sleeve. "It's just…all my life, I've wanted kids—and—and to have that taken away in a single conversation…" she trailed off, her voice shaking slightly.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart," Dad said softly.

Lily gave him a tremulous smile. "Don't be sorry, Dad," she whispered. "It's not over yet."

It was as though the sitting room had been struck by lightning—Lily could feel the shock of her statement reverberating through the walls, suspending over the coffee table. Her smile widened slightly.

"What do you mean?" Mum breathed at last, looking half-hopeful, half-fearful again.

Lily glanced at Tommy; he was grinning at her now.

"Well," she said slowly, turning to her parents again, both of whom looked unspeakably anxious. "It might have taken me a while to get used to the idea that I would never _have_ a child…but I was never planning on getting used to the idea of not having a child at all, was I?"

Mum blinked, several times. Dad frowned confusedly.

Hand trembling, Lily reached into the pocket of her cloak and closed her fingers around a small photograph. She took a deep breath. Then, she withdrew the photograph and held it across the coffee table towards her parents. Mum's fingers shook even more than Lily's as she reached forward to accept it.

"This is Nora," Lily said softly. "She's three, and she lives in a Wizarding orphanage in France. We started the adoption process in March. Everything was finalized last week."

"Her parents were British curse-breakers," Tommy explained, his voice thick with emotion; Lily picked up his hand and kissed it. "They—they were killed during the Paris explosion, when Nora was only five months old. She's got no other family."

Lily looked at her parents. Mum was trembling from head-to-toe, as she stared at the photograph. Dad looked stupefied.

"We'll be able to bring her home for Christmas," Lily added in a whisper, and suddenly, Mum—whom Lily had never seen shed a single teardrop in her life—burst into tears.

Hot tears welled up in Lily's own eyes before she could stop them, and she gave her mother a slightly watery smile. "Is that happy crying, Mummy?"

"You—have—no idea," Mum said in a strangled voice, wiping her eyes and beaming at Lily. "Oh, Merlin, that was stupid—of course you do!"

Tommy laughed, climbing to his feet to give Mum a hug—but Lily was looking at her father now. He had taken the photograph from Mum and was staring down at it with an unreadable expression.

"Daddy?" Lily asked softly.

He looked up and met her gaze—and immediately, Lily's breath caught in her throat. His eyes were blazing—with love, and pride, and gratitude—and a million other things that Lily knew she would never be able to put a name to. She rose to her feet, and so did Dad, and simultaneously, they stepped forward and embraced.

"Congratulations, sweetheart," he whispered hoarsely, kissing the top of her head.

Lily tightened her arms around Dad's stomach for a moment, before she pulled away, beaming up at him. Dad smiled tightly back at her. Then, he picked up the photograph of little Nora again and gazed down it. Very gently, he ran a finger over the toddler's bright blond curls, and Lily's tears spilled over.

* * *

 _To show us how to live, to teach us how to give,_  
 _To guide us with a light of love._

—Alabama

* * *

Author's Note:

:')

Asdfkadsfl. Everybody, just take a moment to think about how much it would mean to Harry for his daughter to adopt an unwanted orphan. GAH.

Next up is HUGO! With 'Blue Christmas.'


	9. Hugo: Blue Christmas

**IX.**

 **Hugo**

Blue Christmas

22 December 2042

* * *

 _I'll have a blue Christmas without you.  
I'll be so blue, just thinking about you._

* * *

Hugo burped and closed his eyes, setting his now-empty scotch glass down on the Three Broomsticks' bar counter and leaning back in his barstool. The Firewhisky seared his throat and chest, burning a much-welcome numbness into his body.

"Can I get you anything else?"

Hugo opened his eyes, blinking blearily. A pretty barmaid, whose dark hair hung in a long braid down her back, was wiping down the bar counter with a wet rag, considering him expectantly.

"Oh—er—" Hugo shook his head, trying to focus. "Jus' 'nother glass of Firewhisky, please."

The barmaid nodded once and bent down, producing a tall bottle of amber liquid. Flicking the cork off with her thumb, she raised it and filled Hugo's glass halfway. Then, she recorked the bottle and pushed the glass back towards him. "Here you go."

Hugo raised the glass and nodded his gratitude. The barmaid smiled, tucking her rag into the waistline of her apron. Then, just as she began to retreat towards the other side of the counter, a wild impulse—born, no doubt, of the Firewhisky he had just imbibed—struck Hugo, and he called out to her, "Hey—can I buy you a drink?"

The barmaid paused, turning around and eyeing Hugo sharply. She frowned, her brown eyes narrowing slightly, and Hugo expected her to refuse. But then, much to his surprise, she walked back over to him, pulled out a second scotch glass, and poured a respectable amount of Firewhisky into it.

Raising the glass, she smiled at him. "Cheers." Then, she downed it in one, smacking her lips expertly, as she set the glass back on the counter.

Hugo gazed at her, stunned. Giving his head a little shake, he asked bluntly, "Who are you?"

The girl raised her eyebrows. "D'you always go around asking barwomen for their names?"

"Only if I'm drunk enough," Hugo said honestly, and she laughed.

"I'm Amelia," she said, smiling.

"Are you new here?" Hugo asked curiously. "I've never seen you before."

Amelia looked amused. "I take it you come here often?"

Hugo shrugged, grunting noncommittally. "Only during the holidays."

Amelia frowned at him. "Why aren't you with your family?"

Hugo shrugged again, staring down at his scotch glass. "My cousins and I used to go out together," he mumbled. "But they're all married now."

He had no idea why he was confiding this in a complete stranger, but Amelia had a kind smile, and Hugo had drunk enough that evening to loosen his tongue a little. Besides, with any luck, he wouldn't remember heads or tails of this conversation in the morning.

"I thought the holidays were supposed to be a time for family," Hugo continued bitterly, swilling his Firewhisky around in his glass. "But it doesn't feel like it anymore."

"Hmm," Amelia said slowly, narrowing her eyes. "You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were jealous."

Hugo spluttered, sitting upright and glaring at her. "Excuse me?"

Amelia shrugged, unfazed, as she leaned across the bar counter towards him. "Christmas _is_ a time for family," she said seriously. "And your cousins have all started their own. I don't think that's anything to be sour about."

Hugo glowered at her, opening his mouth angrily—but no words came out. He had been wrong about her, it seemed. Her smile wasn't quite so kind after all, was it? Clenching his jaw, Hugo averted his gaze from hers, snatching up his scotch glass and draining it, before slamming it back down onto the counter. He was furiously trying to ignore the prickle of shame that was gnawing at his neck—unfortunate proof that this sharp-tongued barmaid had figured him out in a matter of minutes.

Amelia sighed softly, reaching out and gently touching Hugo's hand. "You know, Hugo, you aren't as misunderstood as you think you are."

Hugo frowned unfocusedly at her, caught off guard. "Did I tell you my name?"

Amelia blushed slightly, though she smiled. "No, but I remember you from Hogwarts. You were a year ahead of me."

Hugo blinked. Then— "You never answered my question," he said abruptly, sitting up a little straighter. "Have you always worked here?"

Amelia laughed, shaking her head. "No, I'm new," she said lightly. "I used to work at the Cauldron."

"Oh, you must know Hannah and Neville, then," Hugo said vaguely, running his finger along the rim of his scotch glass.

Amelia smiled. "Of course. They're my godparents."

Hugo stared at her, nonplussed. Then, at last—very, very slowly—comprehension dawned. Utterly dumbfounded, he leaned across the counter and gaped at the barmaid. " _Mac?_ " he asked breathlessly, his eyes wide with disbelief. " _Macmillan?_ "

Mac threw her head back and laughed loudly, her brown eyes sparkling. "I was wondering when the hell you were going to catch on, Weasley."

"I—you— _blimey!_ " Hugo spluttered, shaking his head. "I—I didn't realize—!"

"Yes, well, a bottle-and-a-half of Firewhisky will do that," Mac interrupted shrewdly, smirking.

Hugo opened and closed his mouth several times, stunned into silence. Amelia Macmillan—or Mac, as she was better known—had been best friends with Hugo's cousin Molly at Hogwarts. Her parents were old friends of his parents, and Hugo could remember spending much of his first few years at school tugging on her braided pigtails and teasing her relentlessly. They had lost touch as time had worn on—unfortunately separated, as they'd been, by a year and a house—but Hugo hadn't realized just how out-of-touch they had become until this very moment. He barely recognized her.

"Well, I suppose you can find family in the most unexpected places," Mac beamed, reaching out and gently patting Hugo's hand again.

"I—yeah…you could say that," Hugo said faintly, still in shock. He gave his head a sharp shake. "Hey—Mac, let me buy you a real drink. When does your shift end?"

Mac grinned, raising her eyebrows. "Are you feeling sentimental, or just sorry for acting like an arse?"

"Both," Hugo said honestly. "But mostly, just stupid for not recognizing what was in front of me this whole time."

Mac blinked at him for a moment, her mouth slightly open. Then, she picked up her empty glass and withdrew her rag from her apron to wipe it down. "I get off at one," she said softly.

Hugo smiled, leaning back in his chair. "I'll wait," he told her warmly.

* * *

 _Decorations of red on a green Christmas tree  
Won't be the same, dear, if you're not here with me._

—Elvis Presley

* * *

Author's Note:

Awww, Hugo. It's gotta suck to be the last single person in your family during the holidays, especially in a family as big as his! At least he won't be single much longer. ;) This young lady is the same Mac from Lucy's chapter. She's Susan and Ernie's daughter, if that wasn't clear. It was so hard to keep her identity a secret!

The next chapter is my absolute *FAVORITE* one of all! Get ready for Freddie! And his song: 'Grown-Up Christmas List.'

Ari


	10. Freddie: Grown-Up Christmas List

**X.**

 **Freddie**

Grown-Up Christmas List

23 December 2021

* * *

 _As children, we believed the grandest sight to see  
Was something lovely wrapped beneath our tree._

* * *

Every year, for as long as he could remember, Freddie Weasley had spent the evening of the twenty-third of December in Uncle Oliver and Aunt Katie's cozy, little cottage in the Scottish Highlands. His parents called it an annual reunion of their old-and-gold Gryffindor Quidditch team; Freddie preferred to call it an excuse for his parents and their friends to unblushingly work their way through twelve bottles of wine.

Every year, the little gathering played out in exactly the same way. Dad and Uncle Lee would start the evening by spiking something—usually Uncle Harry's eggnog—with Nosebleed Nougat, and Mum and Aunt Alicia would yell themselves hoarse at their husbands. But then, just a few glasses of wine later, Mum and Aunt Alicia—and Aunt Katie, _and_ Auntie Ginny—would be reduced to a group of giggling schoolgirls, and the four women would spend the rest of the night blushing furiously whenever their husbands so much as _looked_ their way. And every, _single_ year, at some point during the night—usually the halfway point, once he'd imbibed enough alcohol—Uncle Oliver became very emotional over his last-ever Quidditch match at Hogwarts and spent at least fifteen minutes sobbing into Uncle Harry's collar.

Too embarrassed to be in his parents' vicinity during these annual gatherings, Freddie usually spent the evening outdoors, bundled in a dozen jumpers and scarves, playing Quidditch in the freezing highlands, boys versus girls: Freddie, James, Albus, and the Wood brothers—Magnus and Malcolm—against Roxanne, Lily, Melinda Wood, and Nayla Jordan.

But this year, for the very first time in Freddie's memory, the weather outside was too unbearably cold for Quidditch. Even the Wood brothers, who were the very embodiment of die-hard, gung-ho, rain-or-shine Quidditch spirit, had decided that evading the festivities was not worth hypothermia. So, instead, the evening found Freddie, James, Albus, Magnus, and Malcolm sitting in a circle on Magnus's bedroom floor, passing around a bottle of spiced mead that they had smuggled from Uncle Oliver's stash.

"Well, think on the bright side," said seventeen-year-old James, from where he was sprawled out on the rug, staring dully up at the bedroom ceiling. Raising the bottle of mead to his lips, he took a long swig and swallowed it heavily. "This is the last year we'll ever have to do this."

Freddie and Magnus, who, like James, were in their final year of Hogwarts, grinned at each other—but fifteen-year-old Albus and fifteen-year-old Malcolm glowered sourly around at everyone.

"Speak for yourself," Albus grumbled, snatching the bottle of mead out of his brother's hands. " _We've_ still got another two years of this insanity," he said, indicating himself and Malcolm.

As if on cue, there was a loud, rumbling roar of hysterical laughter from the sitting room downstairs, and all five of the boys rolled their eyes.

"We're running a bit low here," said Malcolm, taking the bottle of mead from Albus and squinting at it.

"I'll go and get some more," Freddie offered, climbing to his feet.

"All right, but be careful," Magnus warned. "If Dad catches you—"

"—then I'll tell him I got lost on my way to the bathroom," Freddie snorted. "I think Uncle Oliver's on his ninth round of scotch. He's not going to ask questions."

Magnus and Malcolm exchanged a long-suffering look, and Freddie smirked, slipping out of the bedroom door and heading down the staircase. At the foot of the stairwell, he took a covert look around, making sure that no one was in sight. Then, very quietly, Freddie tiptoed past the entrance to the sitting room and pushed open the kitchen door, slinking inside.

Drawing his wand, Freddie made his way to Uncle Oliver's liquor cabinet. Then, he flicked his wand at the door and it swung open. Grinning, Freddie reached for a bottle of Firewhisky—but at that very moment, there was a scuffle outside the kitchen door, and Freddie jerked backwards, dropping to his knees and ducking behind the kitchen island.

The kitchen door swung open, and Freddie saw a pair of small feet pad across the tiled floor, towards the sink. Then, he heard the sound of the faucet turning on, and off, and the feet began making their way back towards the door. Freddie released a silent breath of relief—but at the door, the feet paused.

"Freddie, you know I can see you, right?"

Freddie's stomach plummeted. Poking his head up from behind the counter, he saw twelve-year-old Nayla Jordan, the youngest of his parents' friends' children, standing by the kitchen door with a glass of water and smirking at him.

Clearing his throat, Freddie climbed to his feet and crossed his arms. "The blokes and I are playing hide-and-go-seek," he lied casually.

Nayla's smirk widened. "Sure," she said lightly. "That explains why Uncle Oliver's liquor cabinet is open."

Freddie looked around, and with a blow to his chest, he realized that he'd forgotten to close the cupboard. He swore under his breath, and Nayla giggled.

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone what you lot have been up to," she promised, grinning at him.

Freddie turned back around to face her, eyebrows raised. "When did Princess Snitch retire?"

When they were children, Nayla had made a habit of revealing Freddie and James's mischiefs to their mothers. Uncle Lee had assured a very distraught Freddie that it was only because she was the youngest of the lot and simply hadn't understood the art of subtlety yet—but Freddie had been convinced that Nayla was evil. He had dubbed her 'Princess Snitch' when he was ten.

Now, Nayla looked slightly embarrassed. "I'm twelve now," she told him firmly. "I don't snitch anymore."

Freddie grinned. "Good, because Uncle Lee was talking about disowning you."

Nayla threw him a withering look, and Freddie snickered, heading back towards the liquor cabinet. Reaching inside, he carefully extracted a bottle of Blishen's Firewhisky from the back of the top shelf. Then, he shut the door and locked it with a flick of his wand.

When he turned around, Nayla was still standing by the kitchen door, staring at his wand with a longing look on her face.

"What?" Freddie asked her, amused.

Nayla sighed heavily. "I wish I could do magic outside of school."

Freddie smirked. "Well, I'm afraid you've still got another five years to go, Princess."

Nayla glared at him.

"What've you, Roxy, and Lily been up to anyway?" Freddie asked warily.

Nayla beamed, holding out her left hand and showing off her freshly manicured nails. "Melinda told us we could use her old nail polish," she said happily. "Doesn't it look great?"

Twenty-two-year-old Melinda Wood, the eldest of the three Wood siblings, had long since escaped the annual holiday event at her parents' house.

"Yeah, it looks great," Freddie lied. He'd never actually understood the logic behind coloring one's nails, but at eighteen years old, he knew better than to decry a girl's beauty regimen—no matter how young she was.

Nayla sighed, withdrawing her hand. "I wish Melinda was here," she said wistfully. "She used to do this cool spell on my hair to make it all straight and shiny."

Freddie rolled his eyes. "Well, you can't really blame her for not coming, can you?"

Nayla frowned up at him. "What d'you mean?"

Freddie raised an eyebrow at her. "James, Magnus, and I are all graduating next summer," he told her slowly. "This is our last Christmas party at the Woods', too."

Nayla's frown became deeper still. "You don't have to stop coming after you've graduated."

Freddie snorted. "I know _that_ ," he told her. "It's more so that I don't have to listen to my parents get drunk and dance to the Gryffindor Rally Cry anymore."

Nayla did not smile. Instead, she narrowed her eyes at him and took a sip of water from the glass in her hand. Freddie watched her, slightly bemused.

Then— "Have you ever thought about what it was like for them?" she asked quietly.

Freddie frowned. "For who?"

Nayla looked at him, her expression sharp. "Our parents and their friends," she said pointedly. "They didn't get to do this stuff when they were younger. I mean, you're in your seventh year, right? But just think about the Christmas of Uncle Harry's seventh year. He was the most-wanted wizard in England, and he was on the run—and Auntie Ginny was leading a resistance at Hogwarts."

Freddie stared at Nayla, slightly openmouthed.

" _My_ mum was risking her job and her life, saving Muggle-borns from persecution with Uncle Oliver and Aunt Katie, right under the Ministry's nose," Nayla continued coolly, "and _your_ parents were helping my dad run an illegal broadcast—and—" she paused, swallowing, "—and Uncle Fred was still alive," she finished in a whisper.

Freddie's stomach lurched unpleasantly. He closed his mouth, clenching his jaw.

Nayla squared her shoulders, her expression stern again. "So, you can't really blame them for wanting to have a bit of fun, can you?" she asked sharply. "They just want to spend the evening with their families—and that includes _us_. So, I don't know about you, but _I'm_ not planning on _ever_ skiving off this party, not even if I'm a hundred years old."

She lifted her chin and gave him one last critical look, her hazel eyes piercing. Then, the twelve-year-old turned on her heel and flounced out of the kitchen, her long mane of unruly brown curls bouncing against her back. And as the kitchen door began to swing shut behind her, Freddie caught a muffled snippet of conversation from the nearby sitting room. Uncle Oliver was speaking, his booming voice unmistakable. It sounded like he was crying.

"And he caught it! He caught that bloody snitch from right under Malfoy's nose, he did! And Gryffindor won the cup after eight years! _Eight_ years! And it was all thanks to my lad, Harry…" Uncle Oliver's voice faded away, as the kitchen door finally snapped shut.

Freddie swallowed heavily, staring down at the Firewhisky in his hands. Very slowly, he turned around and walked back to the liquor cabinet. With a wave of his wand, the cabinet swung open. Then, Freddie reached inside and set the bottle back on its shelf.

* * *

 _No more lives torn apart, that wars would never start.  
This is my grown-up Christmas list._

—Amy Grant

* * *

Author's Note:

These two don't get together any time soon, considering their six-year age difference, but let's call this the very first time that Freddie saw her as an equal. Lee Jordan and Alicia Spinnet's daughter is not someone to mess around!

This chapter is a belated birthday gift for MandyinKC, because I know how much she loves these characters. :) The idea of an underground group of people trying to save Muggle-borns from persecution during the war belongs to her. Our head canons are different, but everybody needs to go and read her absolutely, positively FABULOUS story, 'Order of Mercy,' right now! Seriously, words can't even do it justice.

And also, if you couldn't tell from this chapter, I really, really adore Oliver Wood's Gryffindor Quidditch team. :'D

Next up is Louis! His song is 'The First Noël.'

Ari


	11. Louis: The First Noël

**XI.**

 **Louis**

The First Noël

24 December 2026

* * *

 _They looked up and saw a star,_  
 _Shining in the east beyond them far,_

* * *

" _Joyeux Noël, mon amour_ …"

Louis opened his eyes blearily, smiling. He blinked a couple times, and the dark-haired, olive-skinned outline of his wife grew clearer, as she leaned over him, beaming.

" _Joyeux Noël_ ," he murmured back, reaching out and gently tucking a strand of Adelaide's curly black hair behind her ear. Then, rubbing his tired, crusty eyes, Louis dragged himself upright and sat back against the headboard of their bed. "What time is it?" he asked hoarsely, glancing at the window of the bedroom—the sky outside was a cool, early-evening blue. "Have I been asleep all day?"

" _Oui_ ," said Adelaide, resting the back of her hand against Louis's forehead. "And your fever 'as broken. It looks like we weel be able to make it to ze Burrow tonight, after all."

Louis grinned, reaching out suddenly and pulling Adelaide onto the bed. She gave a little squeak of fright, but then giggled, falling into his lap.

"Or we could tell everyone I'm still sick," Louis whispered in her ear. "And we can do… _other_ things tonight."

Adelaide turned and shot him a stern look that was ruined by a twitch at the corners of her lips. " _Non_ ," she told him firmly. "Your muzzer said zat she weel come 'ere with a bucket of Pepperup 'erself, if zat eez what it weel take to get you to your grandparents' 'ouse."

Louis rolled his eyes, heaving an exaggerated sigh, as he released her. "Typical Maman."

Adelaide smirked, crawling out of Louis's lap and lightly swinging herself off of the bed. "It eez ze consequence of being 'er only son, I am afraid."

Louis snorted. "Like _I_ had any say in that."

Adelaide laughed, bending down and kissing his cheek. Then, she straightened, smiling warmly at him. "I weel be back," she told him. "I 'ave made some tea for us."

Louis nodded, smiling back at her, and Adelaide kissed his cheek again, before turning and swishing out of the room. Louis ran a hand through his disheveled red hair, leaning back against his pillows and watching the sway of her hips as she disappeared down the hallway. A familiar heat crept up his cheeks and he grinned to himself. His parents and sisters often teased him about being in his honeymoon phase—he and Adelaide had been married for a month-and-a-half, now—but Louis was relatively certain that this so-called _honeymoon_ phase was there to stay. He never tired of watching his wife, even when she was carrying out seemingly mundane tasks. She was absolutely mesmerizing.

It was ironic that Louis should find such contentment from watching Adelaide do ordinary things, as the circumstances under which they had first met could not possibly have been less ordinary. It had been at the funeral service of his godmother, Mimi, in France, three years previous. Mimi had been Louis's grandparents' housekeeper in Marseilles for nearly sixty-five years; she had been a second mother to Maman and Tante Gabrielle, and a third grandmother to Louis. But she had been chronically ill for two decades, and everyone close to her had known that it was only a matter of time—including her Healer at the time, Adelaide Moreau.

Louis had spotted Adelaide sitting in the second row of the church during the service—and the sight of her had filled Louis's heavy, aching heart with a fierce rush of cold fury. He had spent the rest of the service thinking very vicious thoughts about the young Healer, the woman he'd believed to be responsible for his godmother's death, who had failed in saving Mimi's life—who ought to have _tried harder_ , done _more_ to prevent Louis from experiencing such horrible, horrible grief.

At the end of the service, Louis had muttered a hasty excuse to his family, as they'd prepared to head back to the Delacours' mansion for the wake, and had instead followed Adelaide out of the hall and into the church's back garden, where he had found her standing next to a rosebush with her arms crossed. Gritting his teeth, Louis had stalked up to her and tapped her sharply on the shoulder, a million angry, harsh words rising to the tip of his tongue—but then, she had turned around, and every icy accusation had died in his throat.

Her big, blue eyes had been filled with tears, her expression crumpled. Louis had stared at her for a moment, an enormous lump swelling in his own throat. And then, without thinking—without planning it—he had stepped forward and pulled her into a crushing hug.

Their contact over the next year had been negligible, limited to the occasional letter—unfortunately separated, as they'd been, by miles of water and land—but then, during his grandparents' big, annual New Year's Eve party in Marseilles two year previous, Louis had kissed her for the first time, and had been duly rewarded for his patience. He was fairly sure that he had fallen in love with her that night.

Adelaide had moved to England in February, to obtain a job at St. Mungo's. She was currently wrapping up the final stages of her training; St. Mungo's was very strict about retraining Healers from abroad. Louis knew—although she would never, ever admit it to him—that Adelaide resented having to undergo a reeducation, and as a result, he went out of his way to show her how much it meant to him that she had moved to England at all. He had dragged Maman and Victoire to Jordan's Jewelers in April and spent an arm and a leg on what his mother and sister had declared to be the _parfait_ engagement ring—and the look on Adelaide's face, three days later, had made it worth every knut.

Sighing contentedly, Louis tried to shift himself into a more comfortable position against his pillows—but something sharp kept poking his neck. Frowning, Louis lifted himself up and stared at his pillow. The corner of a green envelope was poking out of the pillowcase. Narrowing his eyes suspiciously (he briefly wondered whether Freddie or James had snuck into his bedroom to plant an exploding surprise, the last time they'd visited), Louis reached out and carefully extracted the envelope, turning it over. It was addressed to _Mrs. Adelaide Marguerite Weasley_ , and its seal bore the St. Mungo's insignia of a wand crossed with a bone. Louis relaxed, leaning back against his pillows again; it was the results of one of Adelaide's recent qualifying exams. Absentmindedly, Louis opened the envelope and withdrew the slip of parchment inside, unfolding it.

He was still staring down at it nearly five minutes later, when Adelaide returned to the bedroom with the tea service balanced neatly on a tray.

" _Bien, chéri_ , 'ere we are—oh."

Louis looked up from the parchment and stared at Adelaide, openmouthed. Her face had turned impressively white. For several, painfully long seconds, they simply looked at one another.

Then, Louis held up the parchment. "Pregnant?" he asked dumbly.

Adelaide bit the inside of her cheek, walking slowly to the bed and setting the tea tray down on his nightstand.

" _Oui_ ," she murmured.

Louis gazed at her. Then, he turned and looked down at the parchment again, his ears ringing.

"I know zat ze timing eez…wrong," Adelaide continued quietly. "We are young, and I—I am only just starting to do real work in ze 'ospital—and you are working vairy long 'ours at ze _Prophet_ —"

"It—it says here that you're about six weeks along," Louis interrupted, and his voice sounded oddly far away, even to his own ears. "Is that—does that mean—?"

" _Oui_ ," Adelaide said in a hushed voice. "Our honeymoon, I theenk."

Louis stared at her, trying to digest this information—but it was proving quite impossible. His mind felt completely empty. There was a brief silence, as Louis turned to gaze down at the parchment in his hands once again, his heart hammering against his ribcage. One tiny word was glaring up at him, neatly printed, clear as day: _Positive_.

"I was going to tell you tomorrow," Adelaide whispered. She paused, swallowing. "Are you—are you not…'appy?"

Louis looked up, startled by the quaver in her voice. And the moment their eyes met, he felt a warm, fierce rush of affection well up in him. It was like seeing her for the very first time, like falling in love all over again. Louis's chest swelled with emotion, and it was a few moments before he found himself able to speak again.

"Of course I'm happy," he told her hoarsely. "Of _course_ I am."

Adelaide's face burst into a luminous smile and with a strangled noise, she flung her arms around him, pressing her face into his neck. Louis slipped his arms around her waist and kissed the side of her head, and for several, long minutes, he simply breathed in her sweet, flowery scent and the warmth of her embrace.

Then, Adelaide pulled back, wiping the corners of her eyes with the sleeves of her robes. "Zis eez terrifying," she declared, with a slightly strained laugh.

Louis smiled, gently touching her cheek. "We'll figure it out," he promised. Then, he smirked. "Worst case, we can always get Maman to move in and babysit."

Adelaide narrowed her eyes. "Do not make me regret zis marriage already, _Monsieur_ ," she said sternly, waggling her index finger at him.

Louis laughed, catching Adelaide's hand and kissing it, and she smiled at him. There was a comfortable pause.

Then, Louis cleared his throat. "I wish…I wish she could have seen," he said quietly in French, gazing at Adelaide's stomach.

Adelaide closed her eyes. Releasing a slow, slightly shaky breath, she climbed onto the bed and sat back against the headboard, next to Louis. She was quiet for a few moments.

Then— "She will see, Louis," Adelaide responded softly in French. "If there is one thing that I have learned from five years of being a Healer, it is that…that the ones we love never leave us behind."

Louis looked up and caught Adelaide's eye, and she gave him a small smile. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he nodded and drew an arm around her, pulling her close; Adelaide tucked her head against his shoulder.

Then, Louis reached out and laid a gentle hand on her stomach.

" _Joyeux Noël, petit_."

* * *

 _And to the Earth, it gave great light,_  
 _And so, it continued, both day and night._

—William Sandys and Davis Gilbert

* * *

Author's Note:

If anyone is interested in reading about Louis's godmother, Mimi, you can find her in Chapter 3 of my story 'Godparents.'

This chapter is dedicated to doctors and nurses everywhere. People often don't realize how much the passing of a patient affects them. Thank you for everything you do.

We're SO close to the end, gang! Christmas Day (tomorrow) belongs to the lovely Rosie, with the song 'I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.' Make of that what you will… XD

Ari


	12. Rose: I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

**XII.**

 **Rose**

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

25 December 2050

* * *

 _I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus,_  
 _Underneath the mistletoe last night._

* * *

Rose glanced up from her sketchbook and rolled her eyes as Scorpius groaned for the fifth time in fifteen minutes, massaging his neck.

"Oh, Scorpius, stop that," she sighed impatiently.

"No," he snapped, glaring at her over his shoulder. "Why can't you come over here and help me with this?"

"I _told_ you, I'll help you once I'm done with _this_ ," she said irritably, holding up her sketchbook and giving him a pointed look. "Madam Smethwyck wants to see an outline of her commission by tomorrow."

Scorpius grumbled under his breath, picking up his wand and turning back to the dollhouse he was assembling underneath their Christmas tree. He tugged uncomfortably at his long, bushy white beard. "I'm too old for this, Rose. I don't understand why I have to look like Father Christmas while I set up the gifts."

"Scorpius, I think I've explained this to you a thousand times in the past seventeen years," Rose said tiredly, adding a few dark strokes to her rough sketch of Madam Smethwyck's portrait. "If Hermione comes downstairs and sees her _actual_ father putting her Christmas presents under the tree, she'll be devastated."

"Well, then, why can't we just give her a couple of galleons for Christmas and be done with it?"

Rose snorted. "We can't give our _three_ -year-old a couple of galleons for Christmas. Merlin, did _your_ dad give you money for Christmas when you were three?"

"My dad is a mean, old grouch who hates Christmas," Scorpius muttered. "I didn't get presents."

Rose dropped her pencil, sitting bolt upright and gaping at Scorpius in horror. _How_ , after nearly twenty-five years of marriage, had she never known that? But then, she caught sight of the smirk playing on her husband's lips and she let out a strangled noise of irritation. "You're an insufferable liar," she huffed, snatching up her pencil again and settling back against the sofa cushions.

"Well, I wasn't lying about my dad being a mean, old grouch," Scorpius said fairly, flicking his wand at a tiny chimney. With a soft _click_ , the chimney leaped up and attached itself to the dollhouse's red-bricked roof. "But yes, I suppose I did get actual Christmas presents."

"Of course you did," Rose rolled her eyes, grinning. "You were a spoiled prat."

Scorpius spluttered in indignation. "You're one to talk!"

Rose's jaw dropped. "I am _not_ spoiled!"

"Oh, _please_ ," Scorpius snorted with laughter. "Ron Weasley would move Heaven and Earth for his darling Rosie."

Rose narrowed her eyes at her husband. "As if you're not exactly the same way with our daughters."

A faintly pink blush appeared on Scorpius's pale cheeks, and Rose turned back to her sketchbook with a satisfied smirk. "I rest my case."

Scorpius muttered incomprehensibly, bending over the dollhouse again. For a long while, the only sounds that could be heard in the cozy sitting room were the faint tinkering of the dollhouse coming to life and the soft scratching of Rose's charcoal pencil against her sketchpad.

Then, after several minutes— "You know, I never thought I'd be doing this again," Scorpius said quietly.

Rose looked up. Scorpius was leaning back against the nearly-finished dollhouse, sporting a very odd expression.

Rose frowned. "Doing what again?"

"Pretending that Father Christmas exists," Scorpius said softly. "Getting the presents under the tree at the crack of dawn…the whole works. I just—I never thought I'd have the chance to do it all over again."

A small lump swelled in Rose's throat. Swallowing, she turned and gazed in the direction of the staircase, up towards the second floor landing, where all four of her children were sleeping soundly in their bedrooms.

Seventeen-year-old Jean was in her final year of Hogwarts, diligently preparing to follow her father into the Department of International Magical Cooperation at the Ministry. Fifteen-year-old Lyra would be sitting her O.W.L.s in June, although she had long since made up her mind to join her mother at Sinclair Portrait Studio in Diagon Alley after her graduation. Twelve-year-old Leo was a second year—and already a much-beloved Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

And little Hermione, who had turned three in August, had only last week learned how to pronounce her name correctly.

Chin trembling slightly, Rose turned back around and met Scorpius's gaze. He was watching her intently, his dark brown eyes filled with emotion.

"Is it unfair to her?" he whispered. "I mean—we aren't exactly young anymore, are we? We'll be—Merlin's beard, we'll be fifty-two when she finally starts Hogwarts. What if…what if she resents—?" Scorpius broke off, turning away.

Closing her eyes and pressing her lips together, Rose released a slow breath. Then, she set her sketchbook aside and climbed to her feet, walking towards the Christmas tree and kneeling down in front of Scorpius on the rug.

"We aren't ancient, Scorpius," she said softly, taking his hand. "We've got decades and decades ahead of us. We're going to be there for her—the whole way."

"I know that, but what if—?"

"What if she doesn't want a pair of mad, old fools dropping her off at the platform?" Rose interrupted dryly, rolling her eyes. "Well, we didn't have three other kids for nothing, you know."

Scorpius met her eyes. Then, slowly, a broad grin spread across his face. "I knew there was a reason I married you."

Rose smirked, reaching out and tugging on Scorpius's poorly transfigured beard—causing him to yelp in pain. " _I_ married _you_ , Malfoy. Don't you forget it."

Scorpius chuckled, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into his lap. Rose grinned impishly, reaching up and straightening the red-and-white collar of his Father Christmas suit. Then, suddenly, she flung her arms around his neck and caught him in a passionate kiss, just as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the window from the pink-red sky outside, bathing the sitting room in a warm, golden glow.

Almost as if on cue, there was a clatter of footsteps from the nearby stairwell. Rose jerked back from Scorpius, eyes wide; then, without thinking twice, she withdrew her wand and rapped it over her head, casting a nonverbal Disillusionment Charm. Grinning to himself, Scorpius turned around and bent under the tree again, putting the last few pieces of the dollhouse together—just as a small head of reddish-brown curls swung around the banister and rocketed into the sitting room.

Rose watched as little Hermione's big, brown eyes found Scorpius hunched over the pile of presents under the Christmas tree. The three-year-old gasped dramatically, clapping her hands over her mouth. Very slowly and very deliberately, she tiptoed backwards towards the staircase. Then, she turned and flew back up the stairs, her footsteps echoing behind her. A few moments later, Rose heard her excited shrieks. "Leo! _Leo!_ Iss Fathuh Kwissmas! Iss _Fathuh Kwissmas!_ "

Stifling a giggle behind her hand, Rose drew her wand again, and with a soft _pop_ , her Disillusionment Charm lifted. Scorpius ducked out from under the tree, shaking his head.

"Leo's not going to be happy about being woken up at six o'clock on Christmas morning," he said in a low voice, climbing to his feet.

"No, he's not," Rose agreed, standing up as well and slipping her arm around Scorpius's waist.

Scorpius put his arm around her shoulders and looked down at her, his dark eyes twinkling. "But we didn't have three other kids for nothing, did we?"

Rose threw her head back, laughing.

* * *

 _Then, I saw Mommy tickle Santa Claus,_  
 _Underneath his beard, so snowy white._

—Tommie Connor

* * *

Author's Note:

Rose and Scorpius *would* be the ones to have a fourth child nine years after the third. XD Also, if you didn't catch them while reading, the constellation names ('Lyra' and 'Leo') are part of an effort to appease Draco muahahaha. Oh, and in case you were confused by Rose's portrait-sketching, in my head canon, she surprises her whole family by giving up a career in Magical Law Enforcement to pursue art. I picture her as an artsy lady.

And lastly (because I invariably get a few messages about this), I don't think it's necessary for Scorpius to have gray eyes like Draco. I've always pictured him looking a lot like his father, but having his mother's eyes. Like Harry. It's symbolic. :)

Anyway...MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE! :D Hope you're all having the best holiday ever!

Tomorrow, we will conclude this story with dear old Ted and the song, 'This Christmas.'

Ari


	13. Teddy: This Christmas

**XIII.**

 **Teddy**

This Christmas

26 December 2016

* * *

 _Presents and cards are here._  
 _My world is filled with cheer, and you, this Christmas._

* * *

It took Teddy a good five minutes to realize that the pounding racket in his head was not, in fact, his brain attempting to escape his skull. Rather, it was coming from outside the comfort and security of his closed eyeballs—from the front door of his tiny Wiltshire flat, to be exact. By the time he had come to his senses enough to recognize the sound for what it was, his roommate Travis had begun adding to the din by banging on the wall that separated Teddy's bedroom from their flat's small bathroom.

"Get the bloody door, Lupin, or I'll bring my hangover into your room!"

Normally, Teddy would have argued, but after seven years of friendship, Teddy knew not to take Travis's threats—or hangovers—lightly. With a long, loud groan, Teddy slowly dragged himself out of his quilts and began staggering down the flat's dark hallway, grumbling under his breath. "Bloody hell…Boxing Day…some of us like a lie-in…"

Running a hand through his disheveled green hair and blinking blearily, Teddy pulled open the front door. Immediately, his jaw dropped. " _Vic?_ " he gasped loudly. "I—I thought you were in France!"

Victoire tossed her long, silvery-blond hair over her shoulder and drew herself to her full height, glowering ferociously up at him. Then, she reached into the pocket of her cloak and whipped out a rumpled slip of parchment, holding it up to his face. "A _letter?_ " she snapped.

Teddy's stomach plummeted to his feet. "Oh—right—Vic—"

"I pour my _heart_ out to you on Christmas Eve, and you send me a _letter?_ " Victoire continued furiously, shaking the parchment under Teddy's nose.

Teddy swallowed. "Vic, I didn't know how else to—I thought you'd left for France already—"

"Do you have _any_ idea how I felt?" Victoire interrupted in a strangled voice. "I tell you I _love_ you, and you say you need some time to think, and then—and then you ignore me for two days! Two _days_ , Teddy! I've spent the past forty-eight hours seriously considering skiving off my grandparents' New Year's Eve party this year because I was so _furious_ with myself for mucking up our friendship!"

Teddy gaped at her. "Vic," he said weakly. "I didn't mean to—I mean, I feel the same—you didn't muck up—"

"You'd better have a bloody incredible apology up your sleeve, Teddy Lupin!" she continued shrilly, jabbing him roughly in the chest with her finger. "Because there is no _way_ I'll ever agree to be your girlfriend if you think a _letter_ is going to fix— _mmph_ —"

Teddy had seized her face and pressed his lips to hers. Victoire seemed to freeze in shock for a fraction of a second, her body growing limp. But then, in one fluid motion, she wrapped her arms around him and melted into his touch, kissing him back just as fiercely.

It was several, long moments before Teddy finally released her and pulled away, breathing heavily, his hands still cupping Victoire's face. He gazed down at her slightly parted lips for a moment—and then, at her wide, deep blue eyes, full of astonishment—and smiled.

"Happy Christmas, Vic," he said softly.

* * *

 _And as I look around,_  
 _Your eyes outshine the town, they do, this Christmas._

—Donny Hathaway

* * *

Author's Note:

Short and sweet. Victoire and Teddy, our bookends, Chapter 1 and Chapter 13, respectively. :)

I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I loved writing it! This was incredibly fun, but also so exhausting. XD

To everyone who read and enjoyed this story, I'm so grateful for your support. Your reviews, favorites, and follows were wonderful Christmas presents. Here's hoping you all had a very happy holiday, and wishing you a very happy New Year in advance!

Update 1/1/17: If you liked this story, check out the New Year's Eve-themed companion piece I wrote for it! It's called 'Another Chance.'

Ari


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